This Side Bites
by FlyingDahlia
Summary: Fuffy femslash werewolf fic. Buffy needs Faith's help tracking down a rogue wolf, but Faith often causes more problems than she solves. /A change in my smile, and who am I? Turn the other cheek, 'cause this side bites./
1. Chapter 1

I pulled back my lips to feel my flesh glide over my fangs. The breeze gently ruffled my fur and the heartbeat of the earth pulsed up through the soil under my pads. Relaxed for now, my muscles silently urged me to tense, to fly, to let my power just flow. There was no need to open my eyes. I could scent the wavering bushes in front of me and the thousands of lives they contained. The kaleidoscope of colour their smells created on the back of my eyelids made my human senses pale in comparison. I could hear even the tiniest motion in the woods below me. I could hear the lack of motion, the spaces left by things being slightly too still, things waiting to pounce, things scared and hiding. I could sense the wide night sky, embodying the cool, fresh essence of black. Somehow the sky seemed closer at night, as if it too descended through the trees to run the trails. This was the moment when everything fell into place. From now until the first glow of the morning I was free.

I tensed. I pounced. I flew.

As bush and branch and bark blurred beside me the blood pounded through my system. This blood was deeper and darker than the human kind. This blood was saltier than the human kind. This blood flowed thicker, and spilt less readily. This blood moved with me as I stretched out my pace and soundlessly claimed the trail. This blood sang with joy at the challenge. This was the blood of violence, pure and sharp.

Then a new scent danced on the wind, something I could not place. I sprang up onto a dead redwood and turned my head slowly, following its swirling. Low, guttural snarling began to work its way up my chest. This is _my_ forest. This is _my_ territory. This is _mine_.

How _dare_ they.

I returned to the trail with vengeful grace, silent as before but without the calm. They had sensed my movement and rushed to meet the challenge. It was barely seconds before we were facing off between the trees. I had been moving so fast it had taken all of my heightened muscle control to keep from crashing straight into my opponent. Instead I bristled barely feet away from their muzzle. Half the fight is always in the display, so my hackles stood high and my razor-sharp cream teeth were on proud display. Every inch of me was tensed, ready to rip and tear and love every second of it. I fixed my jaundice-yellow eyes onto their black-eyed stare and held it.

Mine.

Wolves are not brilliant conversationalists. Monosyllabic sentences are the best you could get out of most of them. But every word carries the weight of their entire body because, of course, that is how it is spoken. My body spoke of dominance, of possession, of a sense of entitlement.

Hers spoke of Want.

I growled, very clearly meaning No.

_Want!_ Her tone was more persuasive than demanding.

Mine.

Want she repeated.

She shifted to a low-threat stance and moved slowly towards me, with no apparent aggression. I tensed and shifted, ready to counter her attack. I despised tricksters. It only showed they lacked the guts or the skill to fight straight out, fangs and fur.

She lowered her muzzle slightly below mine, causing me to lift away. She followed, keeping her jaw level with mine. Just low enough to be submissive, just high enough to make me uncomfortable. So uncomfortable I was still growling. Still moving slowly she stretched along so we were standing cheek to cheek, my nose hovering just over her shoulder. When I inhaled the rest of the wood was almost blocked out by the scent of her.

_My. Goddess._

I realise she's in heat just as she playfully grabs my ear and a chunk of my scruff and tugs, almost making me yelp in surprise. Just as I'm about to knock her over she springs away and disappears down the trail.

Chase.

Mentally grinning I follow her lead. She's purposefully running slowly so I close the distance easily, but I know how this game is played and keep back from her heels. Occasionally I make clumsy swipes with my teeth, just to remind her I'm there. My head is full of the overpowering, intoxicating smell of her, so now I'm the one who can think nothing but 'want'. She speeds up, tearing along and weaving between the trees. I match her pace and add a dance to my step, showing off how effortlessly I run. How I ride on the high of a fool in lust. Suddenly she's going flat out and inch by inch I'm losing her heels. I churn my legs as fast as I can but still I'm losing those inches. For all the arrogant pride I retain I will never have the lithe sinewy build of a runner. My bulk makes me an adept fighter, but could lose me this chase. Then I notice the trail. Her choice makes it obvious how new she is to these woods. I alter my course slightly, running straight behind a small embankment she has to curve around. Just as she notices that I've fallen behind, I barrel into her. One roll and she's pinned underneath me. I've caught her.

This is when I know she's going to realise her mistake. My strongly dominant stance, my unusually musky smell: she thought I was male.

Now our noses are almost touching and I'm bearing over her, there's no chance she could still think that. I stare straight into her shadowy eyes and dare her to pull away, to scrabble out from under me and flee.

Instead, she grabs hold of the loose fur around my neck in her mouth and rakes the claws of her back feet along my stomach. She's no longer gentle and slow, but almost draws blood. When I inhale my breath is tinged with a hiss of pain and pleasure. I twist to swipe at her ear and she uses the chance to pull me off balance so I land half on the floor, half on top of her. I roll to my feet but I've lost my advantage. Now she faces me standing, eyes glinting. Once more we circle each other, but this time we plant our feet, acting like pups. She even barks. Our snapping jaws pass harmlessly through the air. I feel so young and insanely silly, and strangely it does not bother me.

I fail to notice the lightening sky as she drops and rolls. Her eyes stay glued to mine as she displays her soft white belly. I go to stand over her, leaning down so she can reach up and snake her tongue across my jaw line. One long lick turns into several little ones and makes my throat and chest rumble in a half-growl that has nothing to do with anger. But the sky continues to brighten and shafts of lazy golden light drift over us. Our fur fades, our fangs recede.

Her paws become hands that reach out for mine. I take them and place them either side of her so I can lean down and kiss her newly human lips.

"No way that means time to stop," I rasp, my throat sore from my wolf-noises.

"Never," she breathes as she pulls me down.


	2. Chapter 2

I was asleep before the midday sun hit my back, and didn't awake until it had faded to twilight. I stood slowly and watched the western glow soften, itching for the change. Stretching my neck out and my head back I groaned with desire for my fangs and fur, my true form. It came on in a rush. My thick coat spread over me as if it were flowing water, whilst my bones and tendons ground and coiled into new shapes. The power burned its way through my muscle and blood.

I am so caught up in my transformation that I almost fail to notice how old her scent is. She must have left that morning, on her human legs. I can't hear her; she's obviously far from my territory.

The forest is _mine _again.

Which is when I realise how fiercely hungry I am. Raising my muzzle I touch on the wind, use it to explore the forest. Once I've found my meal I'm gone. Eagerly my limbs swallow up the distance and again, in that moment, I know this is exactly what I was built for. I pass within feet of a herd of deer, but by the time they've raised their heads I'm gone. They hold no interest for me: I need something that's going to fight back. I've got to get my blood pumping. Get the fight going. I finally pull out onto the empty space between the river and the trees and snarl in a low loud rumble at the animal I find there. Pulling his paw out of the water, the grizzly turns and answers my challenge with a guttural growl of his own. He's an adolescent; at full height, but yet to gain his solidity. I leap to meet him, which is when he does something stupid. Youth makes him cocky, cocky enough to slam into me and drive me down into the river. He expects to pin my body but I've already pushed myself up off the river bed to break the surface a few feet away. As he surfaces I push off a rock and bury my teeth in his neck. His roar is cut short by the turbulent water but I still have to struggle to avoid his wildly flailing claws. Glad he's strong enough to make the kill interesting.

I do love to play with my food.

Food finally manages to connect a claw with me and rips three gaping wounds in my shoulder. It's time I put junior in his place. I use my entire weight to pin him head-first under the water, just as we collide with a rock. He goes limp, and I have to strain to pull his dead weight ashore. Fortunately the head wound just knocked him unconscious, so I get to enjoy my food fresh. Soon all that's left is a shell. Some lucky scavenger will handle my clean-up. When I've finished my meal I'm gorged, heavy as a truck, but I'm still buzzing all over from the fight.

So I run. And I run. Over and over the length and breadth of my territory, I run all through the rest of the night.

When the first shafts of sunlight force their way through the trees they make the world grey, so I hide in the dark. It's a sickly grey that makes the forest look dead or dying. The sun is a thing to be fought. How dare it force me to change. I snarl up at it, this one thing I cannot fight. Long to be able to leap up and tear it from the sky, annihilate its invulnerability and shred it to pieces.

But all I can do when I cannot keep my hold any longer is to step out, head high and chest strong. All I have left is my defiance, before I'm naked and human on the floor.

I make my way back to my battered old Sazuki dirt-bike slowly. It's filthy and dented, but it's mine and it lasts and it takes me as close as I can get to the wolf as a human. I pull my clothes out of the bag slung over the handlebars and wince as I pull on my tight black top. The wound has already half-healed, but grizzly claws cut deep. I run my fingers over my stomach, and can only just feel six parallel ridges trailing downwards to my waistband. Thankfully my legs aren't injured so the leather slides over my skin without pain.

I swing the bag onto my shoulders and my leg over the bike in one simultaneous motion. It takes two kicks before its engine begins to rev. The vibrations passing up from the seat bring a smirk to my mouth that doesn't fade as I ride off down the track.

The freeway is practically empty this far out and this early in the morning, so I fly along at thirty over the speed limit. Nowhere near as fast as I can run as the wolf, but the small bike shakes underneath me from the forceful headwind. The breeze on my face feels fresh and sharp. The sensation tingles against my skin. I stand up till my hips meet the handlebars and the hair streaming out behind me flutters furiously. No helmet; don't need one. It'll take more than a tumble off of a bike to damage my thick skull.

I ride the wind all the way down until I'm fifty miles from the city limits. I settle back onto the seat and drop my speed. Cops make my skin crawl, and they always hide out around the limits. So I behave and sit still through the early morning traffic. Bankers and businessmen on their way to work give me that special sneer they smugly reserve for hookers and any female trash. I smile back sweetly and rip past their fancy cars; none of them are anywhere near as alive as I am.

Normally I would I would prowl the streets, or maybe find a few idiots who make the mistake of thinking they can take me, give myself a little workout. This morning I'm too tired; all I want to do is head back to my apartment and crash. The hole I live in is not good for much else, but that's all I use it for, so I keep it. Padlock the door so no-one bothers to squat there. Couldn't relax if anyone had been there stinking up the place. But when I push open my door, there's an old guy in tweed sitting on my bed.

And a blonde leaning against the wall, whose scent hits my nose as if I had powdered it down and snorted it.


	3. Chapter 3

I splutter as her alien smell fills my lungs. They invaded my space; they had the _audacity_ to invade _my_ space. Now the place is going to reek of her for years. No chance of a decent sleep tonight. I'm going to have to find a new apartment and wait for _weeks_ until the old smells fade.

After I teach them what happens when you piss off a wolf.

The old guy coughs and clears his throat. I could have sworn I saw dust fall off his shoulders as he stood up. "Good evening, Faith. My name is Rupert Giles, and this is Buffy Summers. The slayer."

"Slayer? No wonder 'bout the smell then."

Summers shoots forward from the wall. "What the?! I do _not_ smell!"

"Buffy, please."

Introducing Rupert Giles, professional Slayer-calmer. Surprisingly, she just huffs at him and returns to the wall. I'm the lucky winner of Little Miss Stroppy's death-stare. I flash her my slightly-too-sharp teeth. A normal human would take the gesture as a smile, although a strange one, but a wolf knows what I really mean: I'm showing off my weapons. Clueless, Summers pulls out her cell and begins tapping away. A Blackberry, of course. Right from the perfectly conditioned hair to the frilly top and perfectly manicured nails, she's the perfect antithesis of a slayer. I remember the last one. Now _there _was a girl that knew how to look the part.

The artefact clears his throat again, and cleans his glasses. I'm not surprised, with all the dust he must gather. I give him a perfunctory glance and throw my bag onto the bed, barely missing his arm. He doesn't miss my antagonism, and moves aside.

I fold my arms. "You forget the part of the treaty that tells you to _leave me the fuck alone?_" I lower the last part to a growl.

"O-of course not," he splutters, "But these are … extraordinary circumstances."

I place the accent. Only a Brit could be so nervously assertive while putting their glasses back on.

"Extraordinary?" I mimic, and I know I'm pitch-perfect.

"You are aware of the conditions of the treaty?"

I nod. Of course I am; every wolf is. I would suggest that he got a history book on the subject if I wasn't sure he already had twenty, all bound in red leather.

"The conditions that guarantee your immunity from the slayer?"

"No killin' or maimin' or attackin' of humans in any way, no helpin' of creepy crawly demons, no exposure, no wild law-breakin' and generally no kind of fun at all. Why, you wanna add another?"

"One has been broken," he says, as if he was announcing the assassination of the president. Or possibly the queen. I just laugh.

"Who'd be that big of a dumb-ass?"

"A renegade. Someone free of ties to a clan, someone without a place in the community. A lone wolf, if you will excuse the pun. Someone only looking out for herself –"

Before he finishes the word I'm in his face, fists raised. _That _got Summers' attention. She almost looks ready to fight me. Barbie has guts, I'll give her that.

"_You. Suggest. Me?"_

I know my eyes are turning yellow from the fear in his.

He can't talk, can't do anything but stammer.

Summers steps in to save him. "Someone _else_ has been killing humans."

Even she steps back, imperceptibly, as my feral eyes focus on her. Her voice makes me want to shove a pom-pom in her mouth. Maybe a few other things too. I pull back into focus and throw myself into the one surviving chair in my room. It creaks dangerously. Throwing a leg over one arm, I survey them as my eyes and heartbeat return to normal.

"What's the what then? The others got nuthin' to do wi' me."

"Giles?" Summers turns to the stunned Brit.

"Mmm? Oh yes. Treaty. Hmm." He straightens his suit jacket. "If one wolf violates the treaty, they must be held to account or –"

"I _know!_" This is getting frustrating. "So go talk to the clans. Get them to deal. Have a conference, or somethin'."

"This is a … unique… case. The wolf in question was never a member of a clan, so they have no way of finding her. Obviously, she eschews any clan members that seek her. They suggested she might be more receptive to your advances."

"Is this a man-hunt or a seduction?" I grin.

The Brit coughs so hard he turns dark red and has to sit down. Summers rolls her eyes.

"Here's '_the what_'," she tells me. Sarcasm doesn't suit her. "The clans have handed this wolf over to us. To me. You may not like it, I sure as hell don't, but you're going to help us find her or the treaty ends. Got it?"

I care little for grand gestures of protecting and serving others, but I do enjoy my slayer-free life. Put one down, up pops the next, annoying as hornets. Especially this one. And I could do with a little excitement.

I spit in my hand and offer it to her. She pulls away, crinkling her nose in disgust. Even if hunting this wolf turns out to be boring, I know I'm going to have lots of fun pissing her off.

To that effect, I take an exaggerated sniff and mimic her disgusted expression.

"You still gonna have to make up for stinking out my place, _B_." I can tell I've already found a nickname she hates. The cogs in her brain are loudly whirring to think of any excuse to get away from me, as soon as she can.

But British guy thinks it's a wonderful idea, that we should go out, discuss tactics and bond and braid each others' hair. They go out into the hallway and have a whispered discussion about how much Summers would prefer to spend the evening fighting sticky chaos demons, with extra goo, than be around me. If they think I can't hear what they're saying loud and clear, they've got a lot to learn about wolves. The treaty must have made them soft.

Finally Summers comes back alone. I grin triumphantly, and she responds with an exasperated huffing noise. She sits on my bed and glowers at me.

"Alright. What are we doing?"

I have a brilliant plan to loosen up manicured Barbie-slayer. Pushing open the door I wave her through, playing the pantomime of a gentleman. She moves slowly and reluctantly, as if I was taking her to a prison cell. I lock the door behind me and silently pad down the hallway after her.

Tonight is going to be _fun_.


	4. Chapter 4

I lead her down the street, striding out with a slight smirk on my face. She hangs behind, desperately trying to look like she's nothing to do with me. As we walk the traffic and the crowds thin, until cars are rare and people rarer. When we reach an old, partly-boarded up building I play courteous again, holding the door open for her. Her nose crinkles as she looks into the dark entrance-way.

"In _there?_"

I wave her in and she goes, reluctantly. We go upstairs to a wide empty room, patchily lit by sky-lights. I think some of them are just holes in the roof. Regardless, it's one of my favourite places in the city. I do some bit-work as a bouncer occasionally and keep the squatters out, so the owner leaves this space for me to play in. I stand in the exact centre and close my eyes, listening to the city around me. The place is developing a rat infestation, again.

"Do you enjoy wasting my time?" Barbie-slayer accuses from her position near the doorway.

I turn and walk slowly towards her. "There ain't no way we're working together unless you can hold your own corner. I'm no babysitter."

"And I'm the slayer. As in chosen-to-fight, super-powered girl."

"So show me what you got."

She sheds her coat and we face off, bringing up our arms as guards. She fights well, got all the moves, keeps her balance. But there's something missing. She has to put effort into every step. Each foot is planted just slightly too solidly. She has to force herself forward into the fight and it makes her tense. I dance around her and even she notices how smooth and languid my motions are compared to hers. It makes her a little desperate, how easily I match her. Deep dark demon beasties are all about brute force and smashing things. She panics slightly at the sheer joy I get from the violence. I can see in her eyes; she's afraid she might be seduced by the wild.

In faint desperation she feints a front-kick, switching in mid-air to a turn-and-kick aimed straight at my head. The twist of her hips gives away the trick and I'm ready when her left leg comes flying towards me. I duck just under her foot and grab her ankle. A swift side-kick to the back of her right knee sends her crashing to the floor, breathing hard. I back off and stand there, bouncing on the balls of my feet and grinning.

"You gotta loosen up," I tell her as she rises to her feet. "Learn to just go with it, just feel it. It's instinct."

This earns me a prime glare, with extra strop.

"Think of it like dancin'. Imagine you're in a club. You do go clubbin', don'tcha B?" Her brow-furrows deepen. "Stop bein' so stiff and serious, and _relax._"

"You are _so_ annoying," she grumbles as she moves to attack again.

"You're the one that came to me, 'member?" I tell her as we trade blows.

"No, that was Giles." Knife-hand strike, flying kick. "If it was up to me," double punch, side kick, "I'd hunt this thing on my own."

"And you'd be killed." I go to hit her full in the face, but she ducks, spins, and slams an elbow into my stomach.

"I've lost count of how many demonic big bads thought the same. I'm still here, they're not."

As soon as she's facing me again my hand is around her throat. She freezes.

I dig my fingers into her neck so I can pull her close and growl right in her face, "You ain't facing demons any more. She'll be fast, she'll be smart, she'll be vicious, and she won't waste time havin' a nice little chat with you. Why do you think the Council made the treaty? You're gonna need me, and you're gonna need to listen to me."

I let go of her neck and she drops, gasping.

"Anyways, you don't seem big on the über-trackin'."

Muttering under her breath, she straightens up. "My best friend's a major league wicca. She can 'über-track' anything."

"Bet she couldn't find you this wolf-girl, huh B?" The lack of reply answers my question. "Told ya, wolf ain't demon. Just another animal, lost in this giant sea of animals. Might as well be lookin' for the thong in a hooker's ass."

"Oh, and I guess _you_ can find her, no problemo."

"Maybe," I shrug, "If I knew what she smelt like."

"Okay, that's kinda gross."

"You hunt the same way. Instinct, B, s'all we got."

"I am _not_ like you," she practically spits, green eyes gleaming. "I'm working with you because I have to, and Psych 101 is _not_ part of your job description. Got that, _F?_"

I raise my hands in submission. "Loud and clear. Backin' off, hands raised."

It should have been left there, as tense as 'there' was, but when she relaxed I couldn't help adding, "So don't get your panties in a twist."

On cue, her fist smashes my nose in and momentarily dazes me. Before I can register, she knocks me onto the floor and pins me. It's almost insulting; she uses a rookie pin, straddling my stomach and holding my hands above my head. Almost as if she wants me to flip her. Almost as if she wants the fight to go on.

From the floor I grin suggestively up at her furious, flushed face. Her reddened tone deepens, though it's impossible to tell whether that's because she's a little turned on or because she's getting angrier. But finally she seems to be getting it, allowing herself to let go and just rage. My nose actually hurts a little.

And there's a hot chick straddling me.

On the other side of the room her phone starts to ring. She breaks off to answer it, keeping one eye on me as she paces up and down. Her half of the conversation consists of vague affirmative noises until she hangs up and pulls her coat back on.

"Giles' got a lead. Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

Barely twenty minutes later we're walking into an apartment in a less decrepit area of the city. Fancy enough to have air conditioning. Summers doesn't get lost even once, which is impressive as she's obviously not local. The Brit and Barbie-slayer don't bother with greeting each other, and neither of them so much as looks at me.

"Willow called. She wanted to talk through that wretched thing," he waves angrily at the laptop, "But all it seems to be capable of is that rebarbative beeping."

Summers sits down in front of the computer and starts tapping away with her index fingers. I shove my hands into my pockets and rock on the balls of my feet for a moment.

"You ain't big with the tech then, Jeeves?" I grin.

"_Giles_."

"Whatever," I mutter, then wander off to explore. The place is full of half-unpacked boxes and piles of books and papers, and the reasonably fresh smell some old guy, a smoker who was clueless to the existence of soap, hangs in the air. It's obvious that they only just moved in. Seems like they came over here just to find little old me. How cute.

Something over near Summers makes a weird electronic noise.

"You're bleepin'," I tell her.

"It's Willow, I've got her on a video link. Hey Will," she chirps, waving manically at the computer screen.

Moving behind her, I see a skinny red-head on the screen, waving back just as enthusiastically. She stops when she sees me.

"You must be Faith," she burbles quietly. "Hi."

"Hey," I reply as I lean on the back of Summers' chair. I'm barely inches away from her and she squirms uncomfortably, stirring up her scent. A fancy shampoo, Sure deodorant, flowery perfume. And underneath it all the unique scent of power, the slayer-scent that almost made me choke when I first met her, now becoming more human, more bearable, and somehow intoxicatingly female.

"What's the 411, Red?" I ask, seeing as Buffy seems to have forgotten about the existence of language.

"The who-ey now?"

"What have you got for us," Buffy clarifies.

"Ah," she smiles, and grabs a pile of paper. "So Giles was able to give me a basic description from what the clans told him, which I was able to put through the police database, 'cause if she's been killing, maybe they're looking for her too. They had a whole case file of crimes that could be wolfy, but no suspects that fit who we're looking for. So, I checked the FBI, and bingo! They think she's some big force in the crime world, or a terrorist, or possibly an illegal experiment gone wrong. Anyway, they're looking for her too, so keep an eye out for Initiative-y guys. The spell's still going flooey, so I can't give you a locate, but I did manage to pull a name. You're looking for Layla."

"No last name, no place we might find her, just Layla?"

"That's it so far. Sorry Buffy."

Red's face looks like that of a puppy that's just been stepped on.

"Don't pull out your misery guts yet," I tell her. "There's this demon guy I know, works a downtown club, talks up a mate of his that goes by the name o' Layla. Mebbe he'd know somethin'."

British invasion clears his throat. "I hope that's not an admission of conspiring with demons …"

"Nah, it's strictly for reasons of poker."

Summers makes a weird noise, like the bastard child of a giggle and disgusted groan, with a snort for an uncle. Giles and I both stare at her, but she just shakes her head in dismissal. Even Willow looks confused through the laptop screen.

"Maybe, um, you should follow up on that," Buffy suggests without looking at any of us.

"Can't. Dude won't be up for another eight hours. I need to crash though; your couch is free, right G?"

He waves me away, clearly glad to be rid of me. His couch is comfy, almost springy, and I settle in immediately. Mr Tweed, staying true to form, hits the books, carrying several into a different room. Man, that guy really has a stick up his ass about something. Summers keeps up her little girl-chat, not even bothering to lower her voice. Not like I'm trying to sleep or anything.

"Did you manage to find anything else? More generally wolf-related?"

I hear what sounds like Red shuffling paper. "Nothing reliable. I mean there's a lot of were-wolf stuff online, I mean _a lot_, but it's impossible to tell the genuine facts from myth and stuff people make up. Plus, there's a lot of different breeds, so I doubt she'll be anything like Oz."

"Managed to find him yet? The inside loop would be really helpful round about now."

"'Fraid not. As far as I know he keeps moving, and I didn't really stay in contact after …"

"I know, Will. It's okay. How's everyone at home doing?"

"We're great. Dawnie and Tara are downstairs getting lunch ready. I should probably go before Dawn tries one of her food experiments, and we end up eating peanut-butter and tuna sandwiches."

"Sounds disgusting. Say hi from me?"

"Will do. Everything alright over there?"

"Annoying house guest, but we'll cope. I'll call when we've finished with Faith's demon friend."

"'K. Bye."

Summers shuts the laptop lid, then leans on it and sighs. She looks tired.

As I hear her go out the room, presumably to find Giles, I stretch and roll over. It feels like I've barely fallen asleep when the sound of a kettle boiling wakes me up. I never understood tea; why can't the English drink coffee like normal people?

I walk over to the window and curl up on the low, wide ledge, pulling out my lighter and a packet of cigarettes. As quietly as possible I unlatch the window and push it open, thrilling in the feel of the cool evening air on my bare skin. It's weird, and I never bothered to find out why, but a nicotine high always feels somehow more intense when you're out in the cold. Maybe they put some kind of chemical in them, to make you feel better about having to stand in doorways and freeze if you want a smoke. Wouldn't put anything past a tobacco company; they put stuff in these things that would make a bomb-maker blush. After two clicks my lighter comes to life, and I take a long deep drag, feeling the nicotine seep into my blood. I rest my elbow on the open window and look out at the city, stretching out across the horizon. The wind feels different here, loses that sharp edge of the wild, as if it came straight from the concrete.

Summers wanders back into the room. When she sees me and my cloud of smoke, she folds her arms and gives me a scornful glower.

"You know those things will kill you? And they make you stink."

I drop my stub out the window. "Time to motor."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating, but I've been slammed at work. To make it up to you (and to apologise in advance for the fact that I'll be away until the 16****th****) here's a chapter with some Fuffy dancing. Also, a Faith song.**

**Recommended background music: **_**'Living Dead Girl'**_** by Rob Zombie**

**

* * *

**

The beat from the club threads under the ground and up through my feet, making my body buzz long before we reach the door. I glance over at Buffy; she's trying to hide it, but she's still feeling the same exhilarating rush. I grin. If there was ever the perfect excuse to unscrew Summers' tightly wound ass, this is it.

"We gotta blend in to get close to this guy," I say, as casually as I can, "So follow me, and do _exactly_ what I do."

She raises one eyebrow slightly, but doesn't protest. Inside, the club is filling fast, and the familiar smell of sweaty drunk bodies packed into an enclosed space hangs on the air, as if liquid. Nobody even looks at us as we walk in. In a place like this, no-one cares until you begin to dance.

I pull her towards the floor and begin to move, hands above my head and snaking through my hair, body writhing slowly. Her face moulds into a familiar scowl of disapproval, but the little half-smile that sneaks across her face betrays her. As she walks slowly towards me her smile spreads and she begins to echo my dance. Gone are the slightly jerky movements from our earlier fight. Now, she feels more like a Slayer: strong; fluid; irresistible. She dances near me, and in a similarly free and sensual way, but she's not dancing with me. She's not dancing with the guys that are drawn to her. She's just being free and feral and I don't even have to look at her to feel the vibes she's giving off. Somebody slides up behind me, but tonight I'm not interested. I move away from them, and closer to Summers, holding the length of my body barely inches from hers. Her pulse beats through me as if it was my own, and her cheeks flush at the feel of my blood pounding through her veins. Then, over her shoulder, I see a dark figure disappearing through a door in the depths of the club. I gently brush Summers' shoulder and nod towards the door. Instantly, she snaps out of her reverie and reverts to her stiff business-like self, pulling away from me. No-more-fun Buffy has returned.

Barbie-slayer follows me as I stride into the back room, swinging my hips like I think I'm king of the world, just to irritate her. As I burst through the door I yell, "Poker in the rear!" and am rewarded by her barely contained groan of frustration.

Pitch-colored hands slam a box onto the table in the middle of the room. Deep crimson eyes stare across at us, full of malice. Wings flex in anticipation of the pounce, of holding victims to torture.

A voice that sounds like metal being ripped apart growls, "You know no-one ever finds that funny."

I shrug whilst Summers sidles up to me, asking in the worst stage whisper I have ever heard, "What _is_ that?"

"Malebranche demon. Goes by the name o' Greg."

Greg offers Buffy a shallow, mocking bow.

"You better not have kittens in that box," she warns.

Greg laughs, a noise more likely to be emitted a furnace than a person.

"Nah, that's small time stuff. Want see tonight's stake?" he offers, raising the lid of the box slightly.

"That ain't what we're here for, Greg. We're lookin' for Leyla."

"She's not been here in a while. We heard the Slayer's after her, and that's never good for business." He looks back at Summers. "You never introduced yourself."

Buffy gapes.

"This is Hannah," I jump in, throwing one arm over her shoulder. "She's wi' me."

"Human?" He scrunches his face in disdain as I nod. "Suit yourself."

It suits me very well, feeling Buffy stiffen under my arm. Watching her being that uncomfortable, whilst trying her hardest to look like she's not, is high up on my list of funniest things ever seen. Probably on par with watching a chimera trying to chase its own tail.

"Why are you looking for Leyla?" he asks, pushing the box onto a shelf, "That's trouble even a werewolf wouldn't go searching for, no?"

"Just heard she could help us wi' summat, is all. You know how to find her?"

"If you go out the back door, I believe you'll find a vampire who answers to the name of Danny. Often wears a red bandana. He'll know how to find her."

"Thanks Greg."

We exchange nods as I lead Summers out to the back alley. Buffy shuffles out sideways, keeping one mistrustful eye on Greg until the door shuts behind her.

"Your turn to shine, Slayer," I grin at her.

She starts walking down the alley, as if she was out shopping for yet another of those floaty tops she always seems to be wearing. I'm about to go after her, warn her to be careful, to maybe look around her, when a vamp jumps out from behind a bin. Instead of being floored, Buffy steps forward, grabbing the back of his shirt and throwing him across the alley.

Damn can she move when she wants to.

Standing over him, she demands, "Leyla. Where is she?"

Instead of answering, the vamp jumps up into Buffy, knocking her over, and runs towards me. His mistake. One punch and he collapses on the floor again. It seems Leyla likes to work with wimpy vamps. I pick him up and slam him against a wall, smashing his face in with my other fist.

"Faith!" Summers screams as she pulls me back. "What the … good goddess … the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Gettin' info."

"You're beating him into a pulp! We need him to talk!"

"Yeah, I know, and this is how it's done. You might wanna go cuddle teddies and run crèches, but this here is how it's done. I'm stronger than him, I beat on him, I get what I want."

I have to stop talking because the unhelpful vamp has tried to make a run for it. Grabbing his shirt I slam him against the wall, and lift my hand to sock him across the face. Summers catches my wrist, stopping me again.

"So this is how you live your life?" she asks softly, and there's a touch of pity in those shimmering green orbs that makes me spit out my answer just a little bit harder.

"Yeah, it is. An' I _love_ it."

Without a word Summers disappears back into the club, the metal door clanging loudly behind her. As I resume pounding the vamp into a dust burger, I know she's running as far away from the screams as she can. I can't blame her, but I know she'll never run far or fast enough. Because she's part of it, a part of this. Though she doesn't look it, she belongs in this world as much as the vamp and I do. It's inside her just like it's inside us.

And you can't run away from the screams inside your own mind.


	7. Chapter 7

**Recommended background music: **_**'Underdog'**_** by You Me At Six**

* * *

"Are you _drunk!_"

You don't need super-sensitive hearing to pick up on the heightened pitch of Barbie-Slayer's voice. And judging by the way she crinkles her nose, she doesn't need to borrow my sense of smell to notice the reek of booze, smokes and sex on me. I lean against the door jamb and grin at her.

"Didja miss me?"

Looking mad enough to rip me in half, Summers stomps into the kitchen.

As I half walk, half stumble towards the couch, I call out, "Careful, ya might trip ova tha' pout of yoa's."

I can't see her from my prone position, but I can hear her half-repressed sigh of exasperation. The delicious smell of coffee wafts into my nose as she walks back to me. She hands the mug to me and steps back, still scowling.

"So was that vampire any more talkative after you knocked him unconscious?"

"Jus' a lackey. This 's crap coffee."

"Buying out a liquor store tends to do that to your taste buds. And you better be sober by morning or I'll …" her voice fades out as the door slams behind her. I can barely find the energy to listen in, but I still manage to hear her talking about Willow and something called 'the Curse of the Boogies'.

"Dun't worry," I mutter as I fall asleep, "Werewolf's got a tougha head than an Irishman with an attitude problem."

My first thought in the morning is, not surprisingly, that the carpet stinks. I roll over and peer up at Buffy, who is holding the couch at an angle. Sitting up, I rub my head. There's no chance of a bruise, but I might be able extract something vaguely resembling sympathy from Buffy. The unimpressed look on her face as she drops my make-shift bed tells me I've failed.

"Change in plan. Get up."

"'S still dark." I grumble as I flop back onto the cushions, but she simply tips me off again.

"That's the change in plan. And if you don't move now, I'm buying a dog-whistle."

I groan, twist round and up onto my feet to stumble into the bathroom. Summer's threat is far from idle; those whistles are murder on the ears. All it takes is a splash of water on my face and shoving toothpaste round my mouth with my finger to make me feel more human. Well, as human as I ever get.

Without talking, or even looking at me, Barbie-Slayer leads me to a run-down crypt that reeks of blood-sucker. Scrambling off a stone tomb, the peroxide-addicted vamp inside moves towards Summers like a just-kicked puppy looking for a petting.

"Buffy. I was hoping you'd come. I just wanted to… who's this?"

"No-one important. And I'm here for info, nothing … else."

He shrugs as I begin to pace around. "It's okay with me if you want to play that game. Or bring a friend …"

"Ug. Spike. No. And _you're_ the one followed me here, remember?"

All he has is an old, beaten-up chair that smells of homeless guy, a television and a fridge. I give it a cautious sniff: I pick up blood, booze and, for some strange reason, shredded wheat.

"There's too much sun in California. I needed a change of scenery."

Summers can see right through his bull-crap, but I guess she's too impatient too indulge. I don't blame her. No-one in their right mind would spend longer in a vamp's dump than they had to.

"Well as long as you are here, you can make yourself useful. Layla. Werewolf. Talk."

With over-exaggerated indifference, Spike examines his fingers. "That's hardly a very co-operative tone, love."

Buffy replies by socking him in the nose. Finally, the girl's starting to talk shop. That's when I notice a faded grey punching bag in the corner with a crude drawing pined to it.

"Uh, Spike, why d'ya hate Buttmunch?" I ask over my shoulder.

"It's not Buttmu –" he starts to protest, but shuts his mouth with a snap when Buffy hits him again.

"Fine, fine, don't get your knickers in a twist. Never heard the name Layla, but I've had werewolves working for me before, about thirty years back. Sorry-looking bunch they were too. Pull out a lighter and they'd run a mile."

"Down south? Mebbe called themselves the Kyklos?"

"Yeah…" Spike turned fully to me for the first time, knitting his brow in fascination. "How'd you know that?"

"They were big with the KKK, way back when. They're one of the few clans that'll lower themselves to working for anythin'. 'Specially somethin' as weak as a blood-sucker."

He whips round, sporting his pathetic vamp fangs. I don't move an inch.

"Watch who you're calling weak, you bint."

"Y'wanna staht somethin'?" I growl, my accent thickening around my fangs.

"Stop! Both of you!" Summers is fuming, a scary enough sight to make both us step off. " Now either you play nice, or I'm putting both of you in separate corners."

Spike, for some reason, almost looks abashed. I just grin.

"Spike. Do you have _anything_ useful for us?" The peroxide wimp shakes his head. "Then go find something. Fast."

In my opinion, Buffy stalking out is her first good plan of the night. The vamp glares at me with impotent rage. My grin turns into a mocking smirk.

"Guess that makes me the date of choice," I tell him, planting my feet opposite him, blocking the path Summers just took.

"Run along then," he spits back.

I call out to him over my shoulder as I walk out the door.

"Later."


	8. Chapter 8

**Recommended background music: **_**'Assassin'**_** by Muse**

**

* * *

**

There's no sign of Summers anywhere outside Spike's crypt. I find her scent, a thin fresh layer covering the stench of unwashed un-dead. Setting out at a lope, I follow her path halfway across the cemetery before I see her, kicking the shit out of a group of vamps. For a moment I stay where I am, watching her move from behind a stone-carved angel. Unaware that she's being watched, a change comes over her. Business-Buffy is long gone, replaced by a creature of pure power. Free of the concerns that tie her to this world, she forgets the image of normalcy she so desperately clings to. On some low level, she enjoys the violence. She glows with the rush coursing through her body. It shines through her, making her more real, more alive, than I have ever seen her look before. But the violence is not the only thing that I see etched across her features. She is at peace. Here, in this moment, there is nothing but the fight. There is no need to think, no need for emotion or even the pretence of emotion. All the world requires of her is movement, and there is nothing that moves in quite the same way. I feel as if I'm the only witness to the force of nature before me.

Until I see the flash of animal eyes in the trees beyond Buffy.

I sprint straight past her, barely hearing her call out my name, ripping out of my human form as I run.

The other wolf disappears through the undergrowth in a ripple of darkness.

I hit the ground with all four legs and immediately hunt for the fresh trace of my prey.

To be almost knocked over by the intoxicating fragrance of blood.

_Human _blood.

Distracted by my sudden appearance, Buffy had left herself open to the remaining two vamps, who pounced. Bleeding profusely from her nose and lip she stumbles back into a defensive posture, leaning slightly on her back leg. She holds her left arm close against her stomach, leaving it there to raise the stake in her right hand. Warily, the leeches circle her. Even when wounded, a Slayer could still leave both of them floating on the wind.

They don't even get the chance to try.

I land full square on the back of the nearest one, hitting him with almost two hundred pounds of enraged beast. My claws pierce through his back when I spring off him to fly at the other, knocking him down. Snarling, I pin the snivelling corpse with both paws while his companion shrieks in agony behind me. A slight increase in the pressure on his chest results in a satisfying crunch as his ribs break. Even if you don't breathe, a punctured lung will still make you see white. His screams replace those of the first bloodsucker, who has put out his misery by Summers' stake. I move one paw onto my victim's shoulder, to slowly and torturously force his arm out of its socket. Buffy's strangled cry of surprise causes me to whip my head around. A few injures are nothing to the Slayer; her wide-eyed stare is piercing me. She recoils slightly at the sight of my lupine face, long yellow fangs dripping saliva, my muzzle stained even darker with blood.

I turn, close my jaws around the vamp's head and tear his neck in two, filling my mouth with the acrid taste of his dust.

When I face Buffy again she inches towards me. Slowly, I move to meet her. Tentatively, she reaches out to smooth the ruffled fur on my head. Without moving, I transform back so she's running her hand through my dark tresses. Her hand freezes in place.

That might be something to do with the fact that my clothes are lying in tatters a few feet away.

"You're hurt," I whisper, mostly to break the uncomfortable silence.

She pulls back her hand to wipe some of the blood off her face.

"I've had worse."

I gently lay my hand on her injured arm. She winces slightly, but clenches her teeth, braces herself against my shoulder and nods. In one swift motion, I push her joint back into place. She barely makes a sound. We sit like that for a moment as she lets the pain fade. I reach out to finishing cleaning her face but she stands, out of my reach.

"We should get back, update Giles."

I rise to follow her, but she stops. Blushing, she opens her mouth as if to say something. I raise one eyebrow.

"Maybe, um, you should … uh … be wolfy again." A short gesture down my body makes her point clear.

With a smirk, I step towards her.

"You embarrassed, B?" I tease.

"No, I just … you being arrested could be inconvenient."

"Depends who was doing the arresting."

My suggestive smirk just makes her huff and walk away, out of the cemetery. I tilt my head on to one side to watch her storm off.

"Woof," I say quietly before I follow her, this time on all fours. How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle!

Luckily there are very few people on our route back to their apartment at four in the morning. Those we do run into keep their distance, usually scampering across the road away from me, even though I keep meekly to Buffy's side. When we're only about twenty minutes walk away, Summers stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk. I nudge her, whining; sunrise is getting close. She doesn't budge, just stares off into the distance. Curious, I follow her eye-line.

Across a barren construction site, a lone crane creaks slightly under its own weight. Silhouetted against the greying sky, it looks like a solid mass, a giant black platform hovering above the city.

I look back at Buffy. The only sign she is alive are flickers, mere flickers, behind her eyes. Then I reach out and do something I have never done before.

As briefly as possible, I lick her hand.

Gods on acid, that was so humiliating.

But it pulls Buffy out of her reverie. She smiles down at me, sadness playing at the corners of her lips. We continue on our way, making it into Giles' apartment just as the sunlight bursts over the concrete skyline.


	9. Chapter 9

**Recommended background music: **_**'Butterflies and Hurricanes'**_** by Muse**

We burst through the door just as the first weak rays of sunlight seep over the concrete horizon, breaking me back into a quivering human. Buffy looks down at me, slightly surprised, before stepping around me and calling out to her Brit. She bends down to search through one of the boxes strewn about the room, giving me a prime opportunity to appreciate her ass. Firm, toned: a little on the small side for my taste. All too soon, a large shirt flies towards me.

"Put that on, before you give Giles a heart attack," was Summers' curt, yet half-amused instruction.

While she expertly worked the coffee machine, I buttoned up the borrowed shirt. Pinstripes seemed like an unusual choice for a girl like Buffy. Gingerly, I lifted the collar to my nose.

"Oh humanity."

In the doorway from his room, wearing a dark wool dressing-gown, stood Giles. Staring at me, clad only in one of his shirts. He quickly removed his glasses.

Thankfully, Buffy chose this minute to appear with three cups of steaming coffee and a surprisingly clean face. She handed one to me, and gingerly proffered one of the others to her stunned Watcher.

"Wasn't sure if you –" she began.

"Oh, I think I need it. Thank you, Buffy."

She smiled at him and went to curl up on the couch, one leg tucked underneath her and both hands wrapped around her mug.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe the night we've had," she told him cheerfully. "First, Spike was his usual helpful self, and then I had a party in a cemetery with some pale-skinned friends, which Faith decided to come to in fancy dress. Unfortunately they got a bit rough so we had to make a terrible mess of the greenery, but I'm sure you're just glad we're home okay. Oh, and Faith completed the master plan by bursting through the door naked – uh, why was that, again?"

"Can only wolf out when the moon's in the sky," I muttered.

"You didn't think that would be useful, tactically?" Tweed-man really knows how to layer on the sarcasm.

"Dunno," I shrugged.

After readjusting his glasses, he addressed Buffy. "While we bask in the glory of Faith's illuminating speech, can you think of anything of particular interest from your evening's escapades?"

Summers sighed through her nose. "No fancy weapons or exciting body art. But they were organised. And far too many for a casual group."

"That doesn't mean we can assume they were working for Layla."

"She was there," I mumble into my untouched coffee.

"What? I didn't see her," Buffy huffs.

"You wouldn't. Not unless she wanted you to. But she was there."

"So this is the point where you do the sniffer-dog routine, no?"

"If I hadn't had to come back and bail your ass, yeah. By now she'll have sent someone back to cover her marks, and I have no idea what I'm lookin' for anyway. Blood's pretty distracting."

"Blood? Were you injured?" How sweet. He sounds genuinely concerned.

"It's fine," she brushes him off, a little too harshly. "Just a bloody nose. Anything new from the research squad?"

"Willow managed to contact Oz. Apparently, her theory on breeds is wrong. There are born wolves, like Faith here, and humans infected with their demon aspect. Somewhat like vampires."

"_Not-a-fuckin'-thing_ like vampires," I snarl, slamming my coffee onto the table so hard it spills over my hand. "What we got in us is what's left of the Abzu-Abum."

"Wait – did you just say 'Habs you a bum'?" Buffy asks incredulously. The English Patient coughs, seemingly his standard answer to all of his Slayer's unorthodox interpretations. "I, um, guess not."

"I always thought the Abzu-Abum were mere folklore."

"Prob'ly are. Never went to puppy Sunday school, but I sure ain't no goddamn demon half-breed."

"Sounds like you're a real expert," interjects Buffy. "Got any other pearls of wisdom?"

"Lemme guess: clans were kinda backward in comin' forward?" She nods. "That's 'cause they don't like outsiders knowin' the lore. I'm an outsider. All I can tell you is what you see."

My little outburst creates a tense silence which makes the air hum. Just at the point when I feel like I have to break out or burst, I feel Summers' light fingers on my shoulders. Without using any force at all, she holds me in place.

"What else did Willow have for us?" She asks Giles softly.

"A few anecdotes on past werewolf activity. I've also found mention of true wolves in a few accounts on shamanistic activity. I may also have a few Sumerian texts that discuss the Abzu-Abum, but the translation may take a while. Willow was expecting a call from you: would you update her? I really should get started …"

Again, his voice trails off as he disappears to nest in a pile of books. Buffy goes to turn on her laptop, and I find myself missing the light pressure of her touch. After a short hunt for a spare pair of Summers' pants, I slip out the door unnoticed. I badly needed a smoke, and my last packet had been in my back pocket. All the way to the store, I try to shake off the disquieting feeling that had settled on me along with the Slayer's fingers. It refuses to shift until I light up, blowing a thin column of smoke skywards.

She's getting into my head. Now that I've smelt her blood, I can't help but wonder what she tastes like. It's not an attachment I need. But the blood and the flesh and the heartbeat are all that matter to me. Instead of running down my prey, I turned and helped her. As if she was a pack member. Without either of us realising, she touched the part of me that's dead and in the ground. I have to stop her, break away from her, before I get hooked.

My next cigarette is in my mouth before my old one hits the kerb. I light it as I head back. Convincing Buffy that she can do this without me shouldn't be difficult, leaving me free to get on with my life again.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Yes it's a short one, but the next chapter will be up soon and it'll be twice as long as usual. Just flowed better that way. Recommended background music: **_**'Carry on My Wayward Son'**_** by Kansas**

* * *

I don't anticipate what's waiting for me.

Buffy is slumped over her laptop, which she shuts gently when she sees me. Her movements as she stands are heavy. Her eyes hold hopelessness, but only for a second. Once she straightens her weariness seems to shrink within her.

"Can we go somewhere?"

This time, neither of us leads. We walk, side by side, until we reach my warehouse. For a moment I watch her standing there, taking in my place. My life. Me. She sees the wooden slats, the broken windows, the half-finished graffiti sprayed over the grey walls. And she pushes the door open.

Inside, we follow the same dance as last time. But this time, she faces off against me with a glint in her eye. In our dance of punches, blocks, kicks and counter-attacks, I'm not fighting Buffy. I'm not fighting a slayer. I'm fighting against a need, fierce and vital. A need for a reaction, a validation. A need to feel.

So I give her what she needs.

After only a few seconds, she lands the first blow. Nothing major: a glancing kick just above my knee. The next time she connects, she hits hard. A knife-hand strike to the side of my neck that sends me reeling for a second. I manage to recover, even make a few successful attacks, but she pushes me back. Each time she moves faster, each punch more brutal than the last. I haven't the heart for a fight, and she hasn't the heart for anything else. Finally, she dazes me with an uppercut and then aims a swift side-kick to my stomach, winding me and knocking me back onto the floor.

I wait for her to follow through, to release all her rage on me. Instead she's standing calmly, staring out the window. I stand gradually, trying not to disturb her. She doesn't acknowledge the fact that I'm standing just behind her shoulder, looking out the same murky glass. All I can see is clear sky.

"Evil crane of death?" I ask, trying for a light tone.

It doesn't work. She never wanted to bury her pain. She wanted to _share._

"I … I had a choice. The world: or my sister. And I couldn't – wouldn't – lose her. There was only one thing left that I could do. It turned out to be the best thing I'd ever done. Until … it wasn't enough, not any more. I had perfect freedom, and I lost it. Because they loved me too much. It's unbearable, and there's no release, and I have to suffer with a smile on my face. They need me to. I have to pretend. And it's killing me. Sometimes, I wish it would. But I can't die. Not yet. Not until I'm done. And I'm never done. Never. Never."

She slumps to the floor, clutching the sides of her head as if she was trying to hold herself in.

I've never had to comfort anyone else before. I've never _wanted_ to comfort anyone else before.

Making sure not to make a noise I sit next to her. I lean against the wall, close to her, but not touching. Her pain is so palpable it almost leaves an acrid taste hanging on the air. I pull out my squashed pack and offer her one. The gesture makes her crinkle her nose in disgust, but at least she looks up. After my first few drags she actually reaches for my cigarette, her fingers brushing against mine as they close around it. We share the rest of the cigarette in silence. It's almost peaceful. We even sit for a moment after she stubs it out, watching the last tendrils dissipate.

Without me noticing her movement, she lays her hand on my foot. It's not threatening, it's not demanding. It's not even vaguely sexual. It just is; which is what makes it so awkward.

Buffy gets up quickly and nervously brushes invisible dust from her legs.

"I – have a few things I got to do. I'll meet you back at the apartment?"

The pitch of her voice rises in question, but she doesn't wait for an answer. She just leaves.

I guess it would be better for me to leave tomorrow.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** "**And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you've all been waiting for." Recommended background music: **_**'Lips Like Morphine' **_**by Kill Hannah**

**

* * *

**

Left alone in the echoing space of the warehouse, I decide to add to its deterioration by breaking some of the windows.

Get with the programme, Lehane!

My little outburst of violence allows me to drive out the swirling thoughts in my brain with my pounding pulse. Head hung, I let the blood settle again and calm me down. The dust plays in the morning light and drops out of existence in the shadows above my head. I reach out to snatch at it but it just drifts away, always out of my reach. Rushing through my fingers, it rides the waves of my frustration to safety. I clench my fist around nothing and pull it into my stomach. Part of me feels like I should be crying, or screaming, or running after my damsel. It seems that piece of me has no control over my body. I just stand there, silently and dry-eyed.

Until I turn, dazed, and wander out.

At some point I must have stopped at my place, because when I walk through Giles' door I'm wearing my own clothes. I nod at him, jerking my head up from the chin. He rises and straightens his waistcoat.

"Buffy stopped by, shortly before you. She seemed perturbed."

"Before you get with the protective uncle crap, I'm clean. Didn't touch a hair on your precious blondie's head."

To my surprise, G-man steps into the kitchen and I hear the clink of glass.

"Scotch?"

"I'm impressed, Jeeves. Who would've guessed you're secretly a booze-hound?"

This makes him chuckle as he walks back in, holding two glasses. They're wide and only a third full.

"I realise that at times I can seem … somewhat priggish, but I am hardly an automaton."

I take the drink he offers and throw back half of it.

"But you'd make a wicked dictionary. What's an automaton?"

Sitting in the arm chair opposite me, the Brit quietly sips his.

"A robot."He lent forward. "I also understand how frustrating Buffy can be."

"That ain't the half of it, G-man."

With a soft sigh, I run my hand through my hair, then toss the rest of my scotch down my throat. Giles smiles softly.

"Another?"

I pass him my glass in affirmation. Instead of taking it into the kitchen, he leaves it on the table and fetches the half-empty bottle from the kitchen. We exchange a glance when he hands me the bottle. For the first time, I recognize his eyes hold no judgement, and never have. Sensing a feelings talk approaching, I fill up my glass, simultaneously leaning away from him and dumping my boot-clad feet on the table between us. He finishes his drink standing, silently.

"I think that should be my nightcap," he says, finally. "But it would be a shame to let that scotch go to waste."

Hardly one to argue with free booze, I set out drain the bottle. Once I finish my glass, I take a second to contemplate whether to make the extra effort of pouring out the scotch, or to take the easy route and just neck it. Unfortunately, my path to plastered is interrupted.

Standing over me in all her judgemental glory is Summers. Resignedly, I brace myself for her inevitable lecture. Probably something about the perils of drowning myself in a brewery. She didn't get to finish that one last time, due to my inconvenient rudeness and passing out.

"I'll go get myself a glass."

And then the moon turned blue, the earth spun backwards, world peace was declared and George Bush was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Wait: no. Just _both _Summers _and_ Tweedy decide to get with the down and dirty _on the same night._

Maybe they're under a spell. That could be fun.

Or maybe, I think as I watch Buffy generously distribute the scotch, it's not that strange. There's a thin layer of soil on her right shoulder, and her hands smell faintly of her own blood. They have a purpose. Missions to complete and work to get done. It sounds tiring. Everyone needs to let go sometimes.

So I down the whole half-glass in front of me and raise my eyebrow challengingly. Buffy keeps pace with me until there's nothing left and then stands triumphantly, with only a slight wobble.

"I want to go out!" She announces, each word a little too emphatic.

"Sounds like fun. Mind if we make a pit-stop?

We hit my favourite demon bar again, polishing off two more rounds that a pair of bored jinn are all too eager to buy for us. Out of the corner of my eye I see Greg sneak in through a back door, and make my way over to him. After a quick whispered discussion he hands me a small beige box, and leaves me to return to Summers. I finish the dregs of my drink and pull Buffy up from our table.

"Why don't we stay here? With the beer … and the demons …" she protests.

"Nah. We need to go outside."

"What?" she demands, following me out the door. "Did you see a thing? Or – _smell _a thing?"

I'm too busy fishing out my lighter and the little box Greg gave me to answer. Leaning against the wall, I pull out one of the five, smooth white paper cylinders and tuck it into the corner of my mouth.

"Uh, what's in that?"

"It's a spliff, blondie," I reply as I light it. "If you wanna match me drink for drink, you're gonna take your medicine like a good little girl."

After a couple of drags, I offer the unlit end to her. She looks at it sceptically.

"C'mon. It'll make ya happy, and it sure smells hell of a lot better than smokes."

Her dubious gaze moves from my joint to my eyes, sizing me up. Her expression is part suspicion, part amusement, part curiosity. My eyes crinkle in response, smirking without moving my lips. This night could easily have been left at a few drinks, dancing and passing out, but I'm just longing to see how far I can push her. How far she'll let herself go. It's obvious she knows there's a challenge behind the gesture, so she reaches out boldly. Letting her hand hang lazily around the card filter, she inhales from the side of her mouth, every inch the illusion that's she's been a pot-head for years.

Until she starts to cough.

There's my girl!

Chuckling quietly, I pat her once on the shoulder and tell her, "Don't inhale so hard. You'll embarrass yourself."

Her familiar death-glare has changed. It used to scream self-righteous anger. Now, I half expect her to knock a beer over me and stand there laughing. Instead she takes another, gentler drag, and manages to suppress the splutter that attempts to burst from her throat. She gets better as we pass it back and forth, watching people thronging outside a bar across the street. Teasingly I elbow her and nod towards them.

"Checking out the eye candy, B?"

Instead of spluttering her denial or punching me, she smiles. This night is turning out wicked weird.

"See anything you like?"

"I don't know. He's cute."

She points out some nameless stud in the queue across the road.

"Well go on then. Give the boy a whistle."

"I can't do that! Can you?"

"I'm a wolf. Of _course_ I can wolf-whistle."

So I do, loudly enough to prompt half the crowd to turn and stare at us.

She giggles and tries to drag me back in. Unfortunately for her I insist on finishing the joint before we go back to the bar, where I make sure neither of us has to pay for a single drink all night.

At some point we decide that pouring the beer into glasses is too great a waste of time, and take turns drinking straight from the pitcher. I relax, and begin to push again, to see how far I can take my physicality. At first, I reach under the table to teasingly stroke Buffy's ankle with the soft top of my boot. She doesn't stop me so I slide my foot higher, up and down her calf, then behind her knee and then slowly, tantalizingly, along the inside of her inner thigh. I pretend to be intensely interested in the random talking to me, but all I can think about are her tensing muscles and the almost imperceptible way she squirms. As the weed hits her system she begins to work her way around the table towards me, catching my occasional glances with her fierce glistening eyes which make me want to explode out of my seat. I briefly lose contact with her as she gets close, unable to reach her past the guy sitting between us.

Then, I feel her strong, slender fingers glide around my thigh, just above my knee. She sits as close as she can, holding her leg against mine and hooking her foot around my ankle. To everyone else at the table, she seems to be leaning towards the handsome jinn on my other side. Only I can feel her fingers ghosting over my leg, never more than one or two at a time, so gently I want to grab her hand and just shove it between my legs, foreplay be damned. Instead, I twist my head to softly growl at her, holding myself straight and just a little bit higher than her so her mouth is a mere inch from my collarbone.

"Get your butt to the bathroom before I rip those frills offa you right here right now."

And man does that get her to move.

We're barely inside the cubicle before I'm on her, latching my lips to as much of her neck and chest as I can reach, my hands fighting against her top to posses as much of her as possible. Already she's bucking against me and tearing at my hair, wild to feel. I bury my head in the flesh just below her collarbone so she can't see my eyes briefly turn yellow.

I need to fuck her before I lose control.

As my hand slides over her hip and round to push past the top of her pants, her breath hitches and her eyes widen, staring straight into mine. A sensation passes through her that makes her pupils dilate and she closes her eyes, lowering her head so her fast heavy breaths warm my ear. She doesn't moan, scream or make any noise at all except for the panting that escapes from her mouth. Her breathing is no longer a mundane, life-sustaining act but something that sounds the very depths of her. Those gradually quickening gasps as she pushes against me eagerly. Those short, sharp breaths she makes as she tenses. Those desperate huffs of air that escape as she begins to lose control. That deep, final sigh as she shudders and melts against the wall. Even her laugh as she comes down is punctuated by half gasps that I can feel through her chest, pushed up against her in support. Once she's able to stand on her own I step back slightly, just far enough so she can see the smug grin spreading across my face.

For my impudence, she swats me playfully on the shoulder.

All for the game, I grab her arms and hold her to the wall, just keeping myself from slamming the length of my body into hers. As carefully as if I was handling a pup, I guide her hands to my waist under my shirt. She spends a minute drawing spirals on my stomach, then firmly grips my belt. For a moment she pauses and smiles up at me, a smile that starts in her eyes and spreads everywhere. All she needs are my final words of encouragement.

"Show me what you got."


	12. Chapter 12

**Apologies for the lag – had some real life stuff to deal with. Probably should note here that I've played around a bit with the canon timeline to suit my needs, but it's still there in the background. Also, please don't hurt me. It's not my fault; I'm playing in Joss Whedon's sandpit. Recommended background music: **_**'My Favourite Game"**_** by The Cardigans **

* * *

"She's … gone."

Something about the way he says it makes it clear she hasn't just stopped out to buy milk.

"Gone _where?_"

"Home. Sunnydale."

"The fuck? For how long?"

"I'm not certain. Probably a while."

"So I'm meant to just kick back and sit on my heels 'till she decides to return?"

"Well of course there is still much we can do in Buffy's absence. There is some research I could use your help with –"

"**No**. No goddamn books. The pair of you drag me into _your_ battle and then drop me the first time your girlie misses her mommy? Fuck that."

For far too long I've been happy to play in their world. It's beginning to make my skin feel tight. Suddenly none of it is enough. The air hanging in the room is disgustingly stale, even with the windows open. Outside the sky is too blank, too small. The skyscrapers huddle together and push at the horizon. The building, the street, the entire city is too full of noise, flooding in on my ears all at once. The humming, honking cars contain thousands of humans yelling and screaming, with the rustle of rats under their feet. Even the air is crowded, filled with so many greasy, oily, fake odours that I can barely tell them apart.

"… and of course, I shall be remaining here to continue the search."

Huh. I think Giles had been talking.

Now he's looking at me expectantly. What in the blue fuck does he want from me? Am I meant to pledge my undying support to the cause, get down and one knee and swear to wait upon the great and glorious Buffy until I'm old and grey? It's obvious he wants me to say something to reassure him.

So I shake my head and leave.

It takes what seems like hours for me to drag my ass across town to the underground lot where I hide my bike. I have the disquieting feeling that the bright yellow paint should be covered in dust and the tires flattened from lack of use. It's not, obviously: it's barely been a week since I was last here. Feels like someone else's life. Wait, that's wrong. _This_ is my life I'm coming back to. The other life was the one I've been living for the past few days.

The life that's over now.

I take a moment to settle myself astride the leather seat before I kick back the stand and walk the bike backwards. Underneath me the engine is cold and unfamiliar. It sends a frozen shiver up through my groin that shoots straight up my spine. With a quick rough motion I bring the Suzuki to life, desperate to shake the eerie feeling of emptiness. The warmth takes too long to spread through the machine, and it's not quite warm enough.

Several drivers swear and honk at me as I rip out onto the street, but I'm past them before they can see my face. Maybe I should wait around. A quick police chase would definitely cheer me up. It's a possibility for after I get back: right now I need the space more than the thrill.

I need space away from them and their warped demands. Space away from these fucked up rivalries and turf wars and pathetic power struggles. Space away to think.

So I think. But even out here I can't get that manicured doll out of my head. She ran. Reality hit her like a freight train so she fled. Fucking unbelievable. Wasn't like she was even that good a lay.

As soon as I shut my engine off I'm stalking towards the deep wood, discarding my clothes as I go. Normally they would be left in a bag or in a small folded pile somewhere on my bike, but I haven't the patience for that right now.

I haven't even got the patience for the sun to set. Oblivious, it glides slowly through the afternoon sky, accountable to no-one. As always, I wish I could glare straight at the sun without blinking, to focus my rage on that arrogant yellow ball. The world won't allow me to vent my rage, not even at that unreachable bundle of gas. It won't even allow me my true form to thunder through my forest. _My_ forest. I bounce on the balls of my feet. Anxiety threatens to control my every fibre, but I push it down. Always, I've got to be in control.

So in control, I don't hear the intruders.

In a flanking position, three heavily built werewolves walk out from between the trees. They are clad in trail leathers: self-made, loose and flexible, with ties that allow the entire outfit to be removed at a moments notice. The traditional sleeveless vests show the clan tattoos that snake up their arms and continue unseen over their backs. Stepping into the light and lifting his head, the central wolf displays his neck and chest tattoos: the marks of a warrior leader. As subtly as I can, I twist so that my right arm is behind me, trying to hide the sign of the outcast that blazes across my bicep.

All three of them are bigger than me, the leader probably half as heavy as me again. If there were only two I might have a chance, but it would be plain stupidity to go up against the three of them on my own.

But hey, I never said I was smart.

If only night would fall. These fools have been domesticated. They're more comfortable in their human skin than their wolf pelt, and I know I'd have the upper hand under the moon. Too many nights running free through these trees makes four legs and fangs and fur natural to me. These trials come to me effortlessly. If I can hold out till moon-rise, they're dead.

Unfortunately, I think as they advance, the moon may take a while to make its game-changing appearance.

The lead wolf growls and meets my eyes without blinking. He's presenting a challenge, a demand for submission. Eye contact is powerful amongst the clans, upon any animal. It takes all my will to match his stare. I barely notice his guard pace around to flank each side. They surround me and cut off every escape except the one that shows my challenger my tail.

_Shit._

I drop back to lean my weight on my right leg, held slightly behind me, ready to pounce into action at the slightest provocation. The over-confident way the leader spreads is arms is insulting: he doesn't even view me as a threat.

"Faith. Lovely evenin' fer a walk."

As he talks he spreads his lips in a facsimile of a smile, and affects a warm tone that wouldn't even fool a human.

"Then why do I get the funny feeling you ain't just out for a wander?" I spit back.

"Come now, ain't no reason t' be getting' smart wi' me. I just wanted a chat, all friendly-like. Thing is, some of the clan leaders 'ave been saying you're delayin' on purpose, that you ain't as trustworthy as we've bin lead t' believe. You an' I both know they're wrong, don't we?"

Where's a damn solar eclipse when you need one?

Impatiently, the wolf on my right side grabs my bicep and squeezes, hard. My tattoo burns under his touch, an all too unpleasant reminder of the place they decided for me. I struggle not to whimper. Through the haze of pain I see the eager face of my tormentor, leaning down to grin in my face.

"Keepin' peace wi' the Slayer is very important t' us. These delays will stop, before the clans decide you're as much of liability as Layla."

He releases me, satisfied he's got his point across. The other flanking goon pats me on the face with a hungry leer.

"'Ave a nice night, sweetheart."

He follows the other two into the fading mist of the forest, leaving me naked and trying not to tremble in anger.

For an eternity of twenty minutes I stand there, fists clenched, itching to tear them apart. Once the moon glows above the tree line, I'm immediately pushing off my haunches after them, but it's too late. I want to fucking rip them limb from limb, if only they weren't out of reach. My eyes roll hungrily and dangerously crazy in my head. I need blood, _tonight_.

An hour after sunrise I limp back to my bike, struggling up the hill. During the night I killed six moose, a wolverine, and wounded a mountain lion in the neighbouring territory. Every inch of me is bloody, bruised or broken, and it's the only way I wanted to spend the night. Killing.

Normally I would stay out in the woods. There are plenty of comfortable spots for a kip, if you know where to look. But I need to move, to be doing something. The idea of lying down and allowing my mind to wander is inconceivable right now. I gotta keep moving until I pass out.

About an hour later, I'm leaning on the bar and staring into my fifth beer when a bloodsucker sits down next to me. Guess a demon bar like this is all sorts of connected to underground tunnels.

"Not interested," I say in a monotone, without even looking up.

"Unusual way to start the day," he suggests, indicating my beer with a short gesture.

"Just working up t' somethin'."

"Sounds promising."

He waves over to the bartender for a beer of his very own, and settles his arms on the bar next to me. Expecting to sneer him away, and possibly start a fight, I turn to my would-be drinking buddy.

To my surprise, the pale hand that raises his drink to me belongs to Spike.

"Well you know what they say: work is the curse of the drinking classes," he toasts, half the pint disappearing down his throat.

"You don't work."

"Neither do you, sweetheart."

I guess I could find worse company than a lovesick half-breed.

"Now that you and that sweet little blonde are as thick as thieves, seems strange for you to be out here on your own."

"She went home."

"Fancy that. Now I wonder what made her run all that way…"

When I look up, his smirk makes it clear he knows exactly what made her run. I narrow my eyes.

"And how would you know that?"

"You two weren't that quiet, from what I hear."

Damn. Well, it don't mean nothing to me.

"Ain't one to pretend like I'm not having fun."

"I'll drink to that. Speaking of which…"

This is the point when I notice the glass I'm clutching is empty. He buys two more pints of a bitter I don't recognise, and two shots of some low-grade whiskey pretending to be Jack. As if we were practiced drinking buddies, we clink, down and flip our glasses in smooth, matching movements.

"Ya know for a vamp, you ain't half bad."

"Unique approach to a compliment. Was Buffy such a terrible experience to reduce you to enjoying my company?"

"Guess she was fun."

Holding his beer in one hand, he leans in and smiles in a way that I assume he means to be seductive.

"What say you and me have a little of that fun together?"

His suggestion is so ludicrous it takes me a couple of seconds to figure out what the hell he means. When I do, I end up laughing so hard I actually have to steady myself, one hand pushing on his shoulder. His completely serious, outrageously offended facial expression doesn't help.

"Look, I'll have a drink with you, we can have a wicked time an' all, but no _way_ am I doing the dirty with a vamp."

Sulkily, he mutters, "Well it's good enough for Buffy …"

The next thing he knows I've thrown him clear across the room where he turns two tables and several chairs into splinters. Cursing, he attempts to scramble out of the debris, flailing his limbs uselessly. Teeth and nails lengthening into a rough arsenal, I stalk over him. He laughs, a joyfully masochistic chuckle, raising his deceptively human eyes to meet my sharp feral ones.

Then a deep, silk-laden voice wafts into my ears from behind me.

"Please refrain from killing him here."

The scent that accompanies it is familiar, an aroma of promise, power and desire. Every one of my sinuses seems filled with it, as if it was treacle. I turn to be met by eyes as black as sin, just as captivating as they were underneath me at night in the wilderness.

"You'll make a mess."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: *FLASHBACK* in italics. Little filler chapter, but I found it difficult to find the right tone for this, so please forgive me for sucking at smut. Recommended background music:**_** 'I Almost Told You That I Love You'**_** by Papa Roach**

* * *

"_Show me what you got."_

_More than slowly enough to tease, she undoes my belt buckle. An insistent pull and tug with her right hand, a sensuous slip with the left. All the while she keeps sure steady eye contact with me. Part of me is sure I can see something more than lust behind her glistening irises, and it's ruining perfectly good fucking._

_I dive forward and seize her mouth with mine so I she can't see the terror in my eyes, my fear of emotion laid bare. So I can focus on the involuntary clench and twitch of my muscles in response to the way the seam of my jeans rubs against me as she unzips them. So I can keep this emotionless, for both of us. As her hand pushes my waistband out the way I brace myself against the wall so she's free to move. When a flash of nervousness passes through her, I smile and gently thrust my hips into her hand._

_Nervous is surface. Nervous is allowed._

_Nervous I can deal with._

_Thankfully her anxiety fades as she starts to move her hand. She begins to lose herself in the rhythm, and I follow. As she works her hand little bursts of pleasure run straight from my crotch to my brain, initially bypassing the rest of my body. _

_It feels more like she's exploring me rather than fucking me. She watches my face intently, taking in each and every reaction. Each time I bite my lip, each time I briefly squeeze my eyes shut, each time I open my mouth to pant. Her fingers are long and slender, and she takes her time to slide them across as much of me as she can. One moment she's gently pulling one digit all the way up through my folds, the next she's pinching every sensitive spot she can find. _

_Finally she finds that one spot that makes me growl every time she brushes over it. At first she rubs it up and down with the pad of one finger, and then she starts making small, forceful circles. Now I can feel a warmth seeping through to my thighs, causing small, occasional spasms. _

_Man, this girl must masturbate like crazy. No way any straight girl just happens to have these skills._

_Not that I'm complaining._

_I forcefully clench my hands around her thighs to pull her into me, making her hand flatten and press against me. Prickling lights start to dance at the edge of my vision as our grinding motion causes her finger to slip just inside exactly where I need her to be._

_She freezes._

_If she freaks out at this point I'm gonna hold her against the wall and get myself off against her hand, consent be damned._

_Then slowly, tentatively, she moves, sliding her finger just out and then back in again, exploring the way it feels. Her face widens in curiosity as she slips through warm wetness, as new muscles tremble against her fingers._

_Smirking inwardly, I gently run my hand down her arm to join her hand inside my pants. I press her index and middle finger together and push them further into me._

_She picks up her thrusting motion again, and begins to move her hip against her hand, subconsciously seeking her own ecstasy. Every time she undulates her hips, her arm muscles tense. Wanting to feel her exertion, I clench one hand around her bicep. I must have dug my fingers in a little too hard because she gasps in pain. For one brief second I fear I may have pushed her too far, but then I notice that her eyes have darkened and that she's picked up the pace of her hand and pelvis._

_Fancy that: Barbie likes it rough._

_With a challenging glint in her eyes she pulls completely out, then digs the nails of her left hand into my hip to hold me in place as she slams three fingers of her right all the way up into me. She's starting to get it._

_The pleasure shoots up through my torso like electricity, and I buckle slightly._

_With both hands I rake my nails down her arms, leaving long white marks on her suntanned skin. Most of me yearns to press down hard enough to draw blood. In response, the hand on my hip slides up to my breast. She lightly brushes under the curve of its weight, then pinches my nipple, hard, then slightly twists it and refuses to let go._

_The shockwaves are exquisite._

_The swirling mix of pain and pleasure causes the prickling lights to invade my eyes until I'm almost blind. My thoughts begin to fade to smoke, and I have to fight through the haze to hold myself back. In desperation I slam her shoulders back into the cubicle wall and curl up against her, my forehead pressed against the side of her neck. Beyond my control now, my eyes sink fully into their wolf-yellow. My nails harden and begin to resemble claws, and my teeth lengthen and sharpen. The urge to seize her neck between my jaws is almost irresistible. My jaw trembles with the effort of staying closed, of keeping my fangs from sinking into her, from ripping her flesh._

_In the end, when the sparks take over and my senses dissipate, I can't help closing my mouth around her, only just hard enough to draw blood._

"_Not so smug any more, _F_," Buffy crows._

_I lick and nibble at the small bleeding wound on her neck as my breathing, and the rest of me, returns to normal. Once my hands are completely human again, I slide them down her sides to her hips._

"_Sure was a pleasant surprise. Let's see if we can't crank this up a notch."_

_In one smooth motion I pull her pants all the way down to her ankles, simultaneously dropping to my knees. Her flushed face looks down at me, half fearful, half excited._

"_Faith..." _

_Behind the warning tone in her voice is the dark power of a real Slayer, and I clench up and shiver simultaneously. Sweet as sugar, I kiss the inside of one thigh, then the other, making her tremble._

"_C'mon!" As I challenge her I run my fingers lightly up the back of her knees. She giggles breathlessly. "Night's barely even begun."_

_To brace herself, she flattens one palm against the wall and tangles her other hand in my hair, pulling just enough to hurt. She nods her assent._

_I flick my tongue into her navel, making her giggle again, and then dip my head._

"_Oh… Faith…"_

Some things in this life are pointless. Lottery cards. Curling. Any baseball team that ain't the Sox. Cucumber sandwiches. Those little coats people buy for their dogs that look like human clothes. Trying to do something right.

I'm not saying I agreed with everything she'd told me. Evil bitches are just as likely to flake out as the good ones. But if the Clans are coming after me, I'm gonna need all the help I can get. Even if my help is slightly crazy and a previous one night stand.

After my disastrous drinking night with Spike, I decided to officially dump my apartment. Never slept there any more as is, and I don't want somewhere I can be found.

I fact, I'd only been back once since meeting Buffy. Even then I was in and out in barely a minute, grabbing replacements for the clothes I'd shredded. Ruined a perfectly good pair of _genuine leather_ pants, just because I thought she was something worth protecting.

I walk into my apartment for the last time, to shove my clothes in a duffel bag and leave my key. There's still the nauseous smell of her hanging in the air, but otherwise the place is dead, empty. Only the small red light on my phone flashes forlornly. The message is probably from Giles. He's called my cell several times since I took off, and leaves a message every time. Always the same expression of concern, the same short request: call him. I never do.

And when I leave the phone light continues to illuminate the room, alone.


	14. Chapter 14

**Once again, *FLASHBACK* in italics. Needed Faith to witness a couple of scenes from canon, but I've played around with them a bit and made it an extra long chapter in compensation. Recommended background music: **_**'Say You'll Haunt Me'**_** by Stone Sour**

* * *

A week passes before I run into my new 'friend' again. She appears from behind me, placing a beer on the table, right next to my waiting hand.

"Was wonderin' when you were gonna show."

"I had a few affairs to put in order. This is an opportunity I want to focus my full attention on."

"Where the hell'd you learn to talk so fancy?"

"I learnt English from a very obliging Baroness. Never swore, no matter what I did to her." Her inflection is cheerful, but the sharp-toothed grin that spreads across her face betrays the deep sadistic joy she holds for the memory.

"So what's the game plan? You gotta be some kinda big noise: the clans don't get up in arms for nuthin'."

Layla leant back and grinned.

"Heard of me, have you?"

"Don't play funny wi' me. The goddamn _Slayer_ was after your ass."

"You know, I heard the strangest thing about her. Something has happened, something big. Something that fractured the slayer line. The opportunity is coming, to end them forever. And then," she slams her hands together in front of my face, "We strike! The bane of our existence will be brought down for us. All we have to do is seize the moment, move in on the territory, and the world is ours for the taking!"

Damn, girl seems passionate. I take a swig of my beer, using the pause to consider each word. There's a fine line between being crazy enough to make a splash and get things done, and being so crazy you blow the whole boat right out of the water.

"You an' me," I gesture to each of us with a finger, "Are gonna rule the world? Sorry honey, not one for the long haul."

"Your ego may be that inflated, but I'm not that naive. The world will be chaos. It will be glorious, and we will be free."

Padding around behind me, she moves in close to my back and tugs on my earlobe with her teeth.

"Now doesn't _that_ sound like fun?" Her voice rumbles from deep in her throat while she rakes her nails across my hips. I arch my back, eager for the sharp sensation, any sensation.

But there's a little bugging sensation playing at the back of my brain.

"This plan of yours – don't involve killin' the Slayer, does it?"

"Aw, are you concerned I might harm your favourite little whore?"

Faking nonchalance, I reply, "Ya know every wanna-be evil bastard that's tried to kill this Barbie-slayer has been put down like a dog. What makes you different?"

Layla's not fooled.

"You had to drug her before she'd let you touch her."

I froze. Her voice wasn't angry, or upset. It was the cold hard tone of truth. And I knew it.

"Anyway, we don't need to kill her. We can end the Slayer line without ever touching a hair on her pretty little head."

"So, how do we do this?" I ask, quietly.

"First, we're going to take a peek at this Slayer of yours."

Teeth and nails drawn, my hair thickening into fur, I whip round and growl, "She ain't _my_ Slayer."

"No need to get your hackles up. Save that for later."

It takes less than an hour to run to Sunnydale, our bodies ghosting over the ground, lost in the grey of the desert night. It's been a long time since I last felt this, the sense of the pack running together. It's a unique feeling of power. Any resistance a pack meets it simply runs over, tears to shreds and devours before moving on, invigorated and stronger than before. Not even making an effort to, a pack thinks as one entity. Nothing can stand against the onslaught because it comes from everywhere all at once. I can't decide whether I've missed it or not.

Slipping back into our human bodies and the clothes we carried with us at the town limits, we creep through the streets in the shadows and over the roofs of the town, searching. Finally, I hear familiar voices nearby, raised in anger.

I race over, leaping the gaps between buildings, leaning over the right edge just in time to hear Spike say, "I can't. I love you."

"No you don't."

Blondie and her peroxide vamp are standing opposite each other below me, clearing working up to a smack down. I wondered where he'd gone after I'd finished using him to make kindling. From my hiding place I can just about see the water building around the edge of her eyes. Oh god, not the waterworks.

"You think I haven't tried not to?"

Screwing up her face in anger and denial, Buffy punches him square in the face, sending him spinning into a trash can. I almost cheer, not only because I enjoy seeing the half-breed put down, but because part of me needs her to push him away.

"Try harder!" she demands, her voice wavering.

Shoulders hunched, she goes to march off, but he leaps up and grabs her by the shoulders. For some reason he's brought out his game face. Even I could tell him that's not the best move to pull when trying to make a love confession, but it's not like I'm rooting for the guy. His next bad move is to throw her to the ground. Bloodsuckers, always thinking with their teeth. I have the strange, fleeting urge to step in and defend her, but I sit tight and it passes, like a bad cramp.

She rises shakily to face him.

"You are not throwing your life away over this."

Look at that, Little-Miss-Perfect is in trouble. I look to Layla for an explanation, but she just shrugs.

"It's not your choice."

"Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"A girl is dead because of me!"

Now that came as a shock. It's kind of hard to believe that the girl that protested unnecessary violence to vampires has taken to killing humans.

"And how many people are alive because of you? How many have you saved? One dead girl doesn't tip the scale!"

"That's all it is to you! Just another body!"

"Buffy!" he says under his breath, almost as if it's a swearword.

But before he can say any more she's in his face, fists flying. He makes a few good blocks before she lands a hit to his stomach that makes him double over.

"You can't understand why this is killing me, can you?" she asks incredulously.

"Then explain it."

Instead of wasting her breath on a vamp, she just socks him across the face. Weirdly, this seems to be what he wants.

"C'mon that's it, put it on me, put it all on me."

His technique seems to be getting to her. She kicks him, but it lacks her full force. Like half of her wants to just give in, to lay her emotions bare, but the rest of her knows how bad an idea that would be. Most of me wants to step out, to pull her back and be the one she opens up to. She did it before, she can do it again. The sane part of me stays where I am.

"That's my girl", he goads.

Finally, he makes her snap, but maybe not quite how he intended.

"I am not your girl!" she yells, this time coming at him with a kick that has enough force send him crashing to the ground. Her anger is palpable now, and it makes me tingle deliciously, all over.

He rolls back almost instantly but she's on him before he can sit up, smashing his face every which way into the tarmac as she screams at him.

"You" **punch** "don't" **punch** "have a soul! There is nothing good or clean in you. You are dead inside!" **punch** "You" **punch** "can't" **punch** "feel anything real! I could _never_ be your girl!"

Having said her piece, having run out of words that match up to her anger, she simply uses his face as a punching bag until his left eye is swollen, his lip is split in several places and his cheek is bleeding. She grunts with effort, every hit landing with all the strength she has. When she finally pulls away, his demon face has faded. His last mistake of the evening is clear in the horror on her face. All it shows her is that she is capable of that kind of violence to humans. Even though she knows he just looks the part, it's enough to make the connection. It's just one short step.

"You always hurt the one you love, pet," he manages to get out, breathless and bloody from his beating.

Almost crying she springs backwards to her feet. Every word sinks into her, and she whimpers in revulsion. I don't believe it, the vamp got to her.

"Buffy," he pleads, struggling to raise himself.

As she walks away, determination etched across her face, he rolls over and tries to stretch out to her. Each movement looks painfully slow, but nowhere near as painful as the way he begs.

"Buffy!"

But Barbie-slayer has gone.

"Hey, ain't the police station over there?" I ask Layla, looking in the direction Buffy went.

"Not interesting. Him, however…"

Completely focussed, she slides down the building towards Spike's prone form. Shaking my head, I follow.

"What d'ya want with some beat-up broken bloodsucker?"

"Just to talk. Let's take him somewhere a little less conspicuous."

Each taking an arm, we lift Spike to his feet. Through a combination of mumbled directions, vague hand waving and, on one occasion, him falling in the direction he wanted to go, we got him back to his crypt. It's eerily similar to the one he I visited him in before, minus the Buttmunch-themed punching-bag.

He heads straight to his fridge, and doesn't speak until he's drunk almost a pint of blood. Once he's recovered enough to stand straight again, he tops up the fluid in his jar with whisky that smells like high strength paint-stripper.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Layla delicately slides into his one chair and crosses her legs. Guess anyone can pretend to be a lady.

"We have a business proposition for you."

"I thought you," he waved his jar of blood towards me, "Were working for Buffy."

"Didn't work out." My reply is short, but I know better than to snap at him.

"Regardless, I don't want to be a part of some mad-hat scheme a couple of puppy-dogs have come up with."

"Really? Thought you were the Big Bad in these parts?" I tease.

"Oh, he's not as tough as he likes to pretend he is. Or was that a lie I heard about a chip in your head?" Layla asks, turning to Spike. "Tell me, when was the last time you fed on a human?"

He glares at her angrily, but she has her answer.

"You've been _neutered?_" I couldn't stop the snort of laughter that escapes my lips even if I wanted to.

"Hey! I bloody well have not! That is completely… I ought to… bollocks."

"But you _can_ hurt Buffy," Layla reminds him. "Yet, she's what has really house-broken you."

"Slayer loves me. Doesn't know it, but she does. She'll see it. Someday soon. Then she'll be mine."

"You know as well as we do there's only one way she can truly be yours."

She laces her voice with suggestion, but there's a small, vaguely human part of the vamp that doesn't want that way. He needs to hear it, explicitly.

"And what way would that be?"

She leans forward, as if she was whispering an intimate secret.

"You have to turn her."

"I won't do that. Not to Buffy."

"Let me get this straight: William the Bloody, who made gruesome sport across Europe for a century, who delighted in horror and torture with the infamous Angelus, who took out two slayers, who turned and then staked his own mother, is afraid to bite one little girl? That's quite a leap from the tune I heard you were singing a year or two back."

"Things change. If you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from this one. She has the annoying habit of being very good at killing things."

"Well if you change your mind, we'll be around."

Flipping up onto the tomb next to the fridge, Spike lies back and ignores us. Resigned, I tap Layla on the shoulder and walk out of the door. When she catches up to me, she looks thoughtful.

"Think he'll do it?" I'm doubtful. Freak seemed dedicated, and far too messed up to do anything useful.

"Possibly. We'll have to wait and see."

I pull a pack of smokes out of my pocket and offer her one. With a sigh, she refuses.

"Damn, I'm hungry," I tell the open night as I grind the stub under the ball of my foot.

"You go hunt. I'll find us somewhere to sleep."

Lighting another cigarette, I wander off into the suburbs around Spike's cemetery. My hunger can wait for a little while. I take my time to explore, winding my way through the streets. The place could be anywhere in California. In fact, I would almost think it boringly normal if I couldn't feel that strangely cool heat burning up through my feet.

The night is oddly quiet. Normally there'd be at least a couple of people walking places, maybe a car or two. I guess if you manage to survive longer than five minutes round here, you learn to stay inside once the sun goes down.

After twenty minutes I walk into yet another cemetery. What with the graves and vamps, there must be more dead people than living in this town. I shed my clothes, leaving them in a neat pile behind a grave, and pad through the grass. It's a wicked weird coincidence, actually. If I'd waited till I walked through the cemetery and into the woods to change, I probably wouldn't have picked up on that intoxicating smell.

Slayer.

And not just the temporary smell that she'd leave from just passing through. This is her territory. She lives near here.

It doesn't take long to find her house. I poke my muzzle out of the hedge and find myself in her back yard. It's an ordinary, mid-sized, all-American family house. Not quite the place I imagined the Slayer living. I expected a single apartment, or place in with Giles like the one they had in the city. All my life, I'd never heard of a slayer with _family_. Curious, I place my paws on the skirting and peer in through the window.

"Are you sure?"

Inside, on the couch, sits a cute, dirty-blonde woman in a long, flowing dress. Her face is kind, open, and slightly nervous. Not someone typical to a slayer's inner circle. All I can see of Buffy is the back of her head. That long beautiful hair that my skin still remembers the feeling of. The smooth strong shoulders that I bit, licked and buried my face in are sunk forward, slumped with despair.

"I've double-checked everything," insists the woman I don't recognise. "There's nothing wrong with you."

"Why can Spike hurt me?"

"W-well I said that there was nothing wrong with you, but, you are different. Shifting you out of… f-f-from where you were, funnelling your essence back into your body, it altered you on a basic, molecular level. Probably just enough to confuse the sensors or whatever in Spike's chip. But it's all just surface-y physical stuff. Wouldn't have any more affect than bad sunburn."

She's smiling; a small, hopeful curve to her mouth. It's kind of adorable, how every part of her is just begging Buffy to let this be what she wants to make her feel better. Even the way she is sitting, knees pressed together with her arms crossed on top of them, screams that special kind of insecurity that means all she wants from others is to make them feel better. But a horrified silence seeps in after she finishes her spiel, denying her that comfort.

Finally Summers murmurs in response, so quietly that even my wolf-ears have to strain to hear her, "I didn't come back wrong."

It's not a question. Unfortunately, the friend doesn't pick up on this subtle difference.

"No, you're the same Buffy. With a deep, tropical, cellular tan," she says, almost cheerfully, finishing with that same reassuring smile.

"You must have missed something. Can you check again?"

"Buffy, I – I promise, there's nothing wrong with you."

"There has to be. Th-this just can't be me, it isn't me. Why do I feel like this? Why do I let Spike do those things to me?"

"You mean hit you?" the friend asks gently.

Having got this far, she seems to understand Summers is all worked up about something she can't say, but it's too far a stretch for her pretty little head to reach the truth on her own. Even Buffy can't bring herself to say the words, but her expression says it all for her.

"Oh," she says as she finally catches on.

Having confessed, Blondie can't bring herself to look her friend in the eye. All the other woman seems to be able to say is "Oh, really."

"He's everything I hate. He's everything that I'm supposed to be against. But the only time that I ever feel anything is when…" Even now she can't bring herself to actually say the words. All she can do is plead, "Don't tell anyone, please."

"I – I won't," she reassures.

"The way they would look at me, I just couldn't…" her voice breaks, and she hangs her head to hide her tears.

"I won't tell anyone. I wouldn't do that."

"Why can't I stop him? Why do I keep letting him in? Why is it always so hard it is to lie to everyone about who I'm sleeping with?"

Gently the friend responds, "Sweetie, I'm a fag. I've been there."

Blondie's head snaps up, remembering that it's not just about Spike, not any more.

"Buffy, it's okay. You're going through a really hard time right now, and you…"

"He – he's not the only one. God, I'm so sorry… I…" her head dips again. I knew it. She's ashamed of me. Of what we did.

"Who's the other one, Buffy?"

I refuse to sit here and listen to Barbie-slayer stutter her way through her embarrassment. To make her excuses for what she did with me like she does for Spike. To insist that must be something wrong with her, if she acted on such urges. That the great and glorious Buffy Summers would never get down and dirty with an animal like me.

I'm out of there as soon as I can get my legs pumping, but her last words still catch me.

"Faith. Her name is Faith."

"_Oh… Faith…"_

_In one long lick, I slide my flattened tongue up the length of her once, twice, three times. Each time she arches further back, stretching so far I have to pin her hips in place. I alternate between repeating my initial languorous lapping, shorter, sharper flicks, and harshly sucking her into my mouth. At every touch she writhes beneath me, still sensitive. The quiet huffs of relish she releases and the way she rips at my hair as if she doesn't care there's a person on the other end spurs me on._

_She's so rough with me, thrashing and bucking and digging her nails in, that I can't help but be rough with her. As she builds I lift her off the floor and slam her back into the wall, so that her muscles give in she falls onto me and I hold her up, driving at her relentlessly._

_As if she's done this every night of her life she loses herself in the assault of my tongue. She rides me like a warrior queen, glorious in her ecstasy. Both legs kick out in an all-body spasm, and one of them smashes into the toilet, spreading a crack down from the impact point. Her skin glistens faintly with sweat that plasters her hair back against her head and I have to, just __**have**__**to**__ reach up one hand to wind a strand through my fingers._

_I don't let go when she briefly loses consciousness, or when her trashing drives us back to smash into opposite wall, or when she goes completely numb, and climbs down off me._

_I bring the curl over her shoulder to yank her head round so I can't see the uncertainty on her face when she realises what she's been doing to an almost-stranger in a dirty washroom stall. Thinking this is probably my last chance to taste her, I rip back into the wound I made in her neck and revel in the blood that runs freely down to her chest. I watch it as it carves a delicate path down across her collarbone and disappear into her bra, half-hidden by the shirt that I never quite got round to properly tearing off of her._

_With an evil smirk I now yank them both aside to lap the trail of her blood over the curve of her breast and all the way back up to her neck. Having cleaned up all her blood, I lean back so I can gauge her expression. She reaches out delicately to brush her thumb over the corner of my mouth. The move confuses me until she shows me the small red stain on her skin. Guess my clean-up wasn't as skilful as I thought it was._

_I reach out to clean her thumb, but she quickly pulls it away and sucks the blood off herself. Mischievously, she leans forward and sharply nips at my lip until the skin splits and she can draw my exposed flesh into her own mouth._

_She's the first one to notice the steady wet pool building around her feet. Thankfully it's not more blood, but we still look around, mystified._

"_Shit, B," I laugh. "You broke the toilet."_


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Recommended background music: **_**'Snuff'**_** by Slipknot**

* * *

"This is what you found?"

The doorframe I'm leaning against is stained and worn, the wood spotted by water damage. Splinters rub against my skin. Layla is crouched down unpacking several plastic bags, and looks up at me through her hair.

"Sunnydale seems bereft of high-class establishments catering to the discreet client. In fact, this is the better of the only two motels within a forty-minute drive."

"That don't surprise me. You checked for bed-bugs yet?"

She crinkles her nose in disgust. "I haven't dared."

"Guess I know who to blame if I get fleas. Ooh, food!"

Excited, I reach into one of the bags and pull out a packet of Frankfurters. I flop back onto the bed and tear open the plastic so I can shove two sausages straight into my mouth.

"You've been gone for three days. I thought you were going hunting?"

"Cudn't fine nufin' bu' a ra'itt." Talking around my mouthful of half-chewed sausage, I'd be surprised if Layla could understand a word. At least I avoided spraying her with little bits of meat.

"Your explanation is both clear and enlightening. While you've been away doing whatever it is you've been doing, some of us have been talking to some very uncooperative demons. Believe it or not, I actually managed to get the information I needed."

"Guess we're go then. So what's the secret ingredient to your evil-plan pie?"

"Witch-hunting."

It doesn't take long to pick up the strongest trail of power in the town, even with the Hellmouth fucking everything up. This scent stands out like a bitch in heat. It's so strong that I could find it with a cork stuffed up one nostril and a skunk butt stuck under the other. So strong, that I wonder out loud whether we wouldn't be better going after another, less overpowered witch.

Layla whips out a pair of wicked looking cuffs that gleam in the light from the street-lamp. I wondered when she was going bring out the toys.

"They're magic channelling. Once we get these on her, she won't be able to touch us, no matter how powerful she is."

"Whad'ya need a witch for anyway?"

"She's going track down a little something special for us."

"Why don't we just sniff it out?"

"I haven't a clue what it smells like, or even what it looks like. It may not even have a smell. Not for us, anyway."

"So how are we gonna –"

Suddenly she stops, raising one hand in front of me. I don't even have to make a special effort to pick up the tendrils of power that simply waft up my nose of their own accord. Just down the street two women are walking, having a strangely jilted conversation. They both seem almost unbearably awkward with each other. Don't see why they're walking together when they both seem to want to run in completely opposite directions.

Stopping at an intersection, one turns to the other and murmurs, "W-well… this is me."

"Oh, yeah. Your new place. It looks… nice. Um, homely. And yours. With that deli just down the street, and that little coffee place with the wi-fi, and it's so close to campus, that must be… and no cemeteries… Well, I guess this is, er…"

"G-good night?"

Ah, now it makes sense. The flush that spreads up their necks to their cheeks isn't just embarrassment; it's lust. I never got why people put themselves through the pain of dates and awkward flirting. They should just fuck and be done with it.

"Yes. Good night. That's… yeah. Sleep well."

As she turns to leave, I get my first good look at the woman behind her.

"Hey," I whisper to Layla, "The blonde. She knows Summers."

"Then we'll wait until she gets out of the way. It's the red-head we want. Here," she hands me the manacles. "Bait and trap."

I sneak along the edges of the sidewalk, fading into doorways, silent. Bold as daylight, Layla walks across the road towards the witch.

"Hey!" she calls out, and the chick turns at the noise. "Oh hi, do you think you could help me? I just moved here and… stupid me… I went out for a walk and now, well, I can't find my way back."

I cannot believe that anyone could fall for such a text-book trick, but I guess they don't make them that smart out here.

"Sure I can! Where do you live? I could walk you, if you want."

"Oh, I couldn't ask you to do that…"

"No really, it's no problem, and you never know, we might live in the same –"

"Gotcha," I hiss as I snap the cuffs shut around her wrists.

Dropping the act completely, Layla pulls out a black strip of material and shoves it into our captive's surprised, open mouth, tying it tightly round the back of her head. Yanking on my prisoner's arms just a little harder than necessary, I drag her off the street.

"Let's go, Red."

Damn, I forgot how much _fun_ this shit could be.

Layla lead us both to the outskirts of town, where a big empty manor house stands grey and half-real on its lonely hill. The entire place is open plan, just one massive t-shaped room with nothing but a couple of moth-eaten couches in it. The big glass doors we walk through are broken and hanging off their hinges, large shards of glass buried in the dust and built up leaves. It doesn't seem as if anyone has been here in years and whoever the last resident was, they were hardly house-proud.

I toss the witch onto the floor in front of one of the couches, then flop down behind her while Layla steps up to stand over her.

"We've got a slight problem, and you're going to be very accommodating and cast a spell to help us solve it."

"I can't. I quit. And I'd never do whatever evil thingy it is you want anyway. No way, no how. Doesn't matter what evil painful things you do. I can withstand torture, see if I can't."

"Oh believe me; we'll have a lot of fun testing that theory." The threat is directed at Willow, but the promise is directed at me. I match her unrestrainedly aroused stare as she moves over to straddle my legs.

"Why don't you warm her up, and I'll go get the toys," she suggests, running one finger down the centre of my stomach.

"I like the way you think."

She's off me and out the door in seconds. Being deprived leaves me sulking for a second, but then I remember she didn't leave me on my own.

I yank Red's head back so I can look down into her eyes. A fair attempt at defiance, but the fear shines through anyway. It smells delicious.

When I stand I bring her with me, dragging her to her knees.

"Now the real fun won't start till the sun goes down, but I think we can manage till then."

As I let go of her hair, I bring my other fist down to smash into her nose. The force sends her sprawling onto the floor, sobbing slightly. Knew she'd never be as tough as she was trying to make out.

Her sobs turn strangled when I start to slowly grind her fingers under the heel of my boot. Maybe it would be best if Layla took her time. I'm enjoying having the witch all to myself far too much.

Out of nowhere, a blast throws me backwards into a wall. Dammit, should have known Red's girl would be a witch too. Through the haze of my concussion, I hear frantic yelling.

"Willow? Willow, it's okay, we're here now, I've got you, are you alright? She – she hurt you, oh honey your face…"

"Tara!" Red's cry is muffled, probably as she buries her head in her girlfriend's enveloping hug.

Turns out Glinda didn't come alone.

"Tara, get Willow out of here." It's Buffy's commanding, holier-than-thou voice, and it doesn't allow much in the way of arguments.

"You sure?"

"I can handle it. _Go._"

I've just finished stumbling to my feet when Summers stops in front of me, just too far away to attack. Behind her, I see the cuddly Wiccans leaving, leaning on each other.

"Shouldn't have done that, Barbie," I threaten.

"And you shouldn't have abducted one of my friends and decided to have a party."

"So you decided to track me down before I met so many of your little groupies you wouldn't be able to hide me anymore."

"What are you talking about?"

"I heard you and your pet witch talking. Just because you and I got wriggly you off and leave me hanging without a word, then get all offended when I find someone else to play with. Man, you musta been some new color of humiliated and degraded if a _bloodsucker_ is the comfy alterna–"

"I was never ashamed of you!" she yells suddenly, leaving me gobsmacked. "God, I never thought you'd be so… so… self-centred! Me leaving had _nothing_ to do with you. Willow – my best friend, the one you abducted – fell apart, and she needed me. I had to come back, this was my family, my sister and they needed me, and I never noticed, my best friend and I had no idea… But you had to make it all about you! And you refused to ever let anyone explain, you just left! How many times did Giles call you? I came back as soon as I could to find you, but you'd disappeared already and believe me I did everything I could to track you down. Then, you come here with the Big Bad _we_ were hunting down together! I just – I don't get you. I just can't understand why."

Her passionate speech leaves her breathless and drained, and I'm so shaken that for a minute I can't get my brain to remember words. People showing emotions has never been something I'm good at, and I think if Summers was any angrier she'd swell up and beat me down with her giant feet. Instead, she's the first one to work her way back up to speech.

"That night – is that what this is about? What did you expect? That we'd have that one night together and I'd be smitten with you and follow you round declaring my love?"

"That? It's just sex. Fuckin'. Animals do it. It's mindless. Got nuthin' to do with love."

"Well it's obviously not that simple or else we wouldn't be doing the awkward dance. Talk to me; what is it about this that's bothering you so much?

"I'd rather fight. We're done, I'm finished with it. Let it go, yeah?"

"I'm not going to fight you. That's not the way this is going to happen, you can't always take the easy way out. I'm here to help," she gently places her hand on my arm, "You don't have to fight any more."

I stiffen and rip my arm out from under her touch, moving to stand just out of her reach. She looks up at me with those weepy blue eyes and the thought that flashes through my mind is how can she be so goddamn _weak?_ With a slight sneer playing across my lips, I glare at the floor just inches from her feet. I should be strong enough to look her in the eyes, fierce and defiant and blazing in all my glorious independence, but my gut constricts at the mere thought.

"Please, just let me in."

She stands and moves towards me, every inch of her trembling and her face wet with tears. I remain tense: how does she expect me to lean on her when she falls apart so easily? Pale tremulous hands paw ineffectually at my immovable arms. It feels like she's trying to smooth the leather of my jacket. When she's this close I have nowhere else to look but her, so I knit my brow and glower down my nose at her. The last of the silent sobs that racked her body remain, keeping her breathing fast and shallow. Another salty droplet rolls down her cheek as she leans towards me. She keeps pausing, her breath hitches and I think she even hiccups quietly.

"Please ..." she repeats just before our lips meet.

I don't let her kiss me. No one kisses me. I grab her arms firmly, crushing her flesh with my strong hands. This is how it's done, vanilla. The look of surprised pain on her face as I slam her into the wall is priceless. Behind her the plaster cracks and crumbles, fault lines spreading out from her breathless body. There is no feeling on this earth like causing that kind of pain. Like having that kind of control. Now I lean in, because it's always _me_ that does the kissing.

I bite her. Savagely, just below her jaw line. She tries to fight me off but I've still got her arms pinned. Leisurely, I rake my teeth across the muscles in her shoulder and absorb her blood. I can feel her thrashing against me, and I let go her arms: so I can rip her shirt to threads. Snivelling she crosses her arms over her chest, trying desperately to hide.

"Faith… no… don't do this…"

Amazingly, beyond pushing my hands away, she doesn't fight back. I know she's got it in her, that she might even fight me off, but for some reason she doesn't. I want her to fight back, to give me something to fight against, to just give in to that rage. But she doesn't.

So I throw her onto the floor. In one sensual movement I'm astride her, my hands under her bra just because I can touch her anywhere, violate her completely and there's nothing she can do. I rip the white lace in two and then move over her, hands either side of her head. I'm no longer touching her, no longer hurting her. She notices the change and looks up at me, pleading with every feature. Surely she can see the mad fire in my eyes as I lean down and kiss her, finally, tenderly. When she kisses me back I know she can't, that she won't because she doesn't want to. Pulling mere inches from her face, I lock our eyes together as I undo her pants and with a slow, languishing movement, slip my hand in. She gasps, and locks her hands in her hair. My movements stay slow, and I don't look away from her wide open eyes as I tease her on.

I don't look away when I stop, keeping my hand perfectly still against her for several seconds. I don't look away when I pull my hand out, and lick it clean. I don't look away as I stand up, towering over her unusually vulnerable form.

I do look away when I walk out the door.


	16. Chapter 16

**Recommended background music:**_** 'Breaking the Habit'**_** by Linkin Park**

* * *

When Layla realises what happened, I'm slammed onto the ground, breath beaten out of me, two vice-like hands clamped around my throat.

"You. Let. Her. _GO!"_

I struggle against her, but she barely budges. "Get offa me!" I gasp furiously.

Tightening her grip, she makes sure to press down on all the spots that will hurt the most, and spits her fury in my face.

"I left you with your own helpless little pet to play with; you had to look after her for what? No more than fifteen minutes? And what do I find when I get back? No witch, no Faith, just plaster and debris all over the shop!"

"Gnh!" I grunt, having to use both feet to shove her off me.

Lucky for me, she holds off attacking again straight away. I take the time to gingerly nurse my throat and get past my desire to fly at her and start pummelling in return.

"Summers showed up," I croak eventually, "with the other wiccan, managed to conjure head-spinnin' birdies long enough to get their girl out."

"And you were so busy nursing your boo-boo that you didn't think that, oh maybe _fighting back_ would be a good idea?"

"Why don't you try fightin' a goddamn vampire slayer with mystical back-up on your lonesome, see how pretty you come outta that one?"

"Excuses are hardly useful right now. I'm going to go and try and repair your glaring mistake; you go get the bloodsucker in the game. See if you can at least accomplish that little task properly."

As she walks away it takes all of my little-used self-control to keep my arms at my sides, fists clenched and trembling. There aren't many people I'd let talk to me like that. If I had my way, there wouldn't be anybody who'd dare play high and mighty with me like she just did. Especially someone who's doing so little of her own grunt work. This playing with others thing is getting old fast.

But I'm never opposed to causing a little chaos.

Though looking around his crypt, turns out everybody's favourite fanged eunuch may have already had a little party of his own. The hole in the ground that passes for his basement has blast marks around it. Inside stands a very piteous looking Spike, picking through the blackened wreckage of his things.

"Yunno, I think I heard somewhere that post-apocalyptic splendour was the in-look this month. Never took you for a trend-lover though."

He glares at me, but then thinks better of it. Guess any company's good company sometimes. With a wry smile, he hefts a piece of debris in one hand.

"This? Courtesy of Buffy dearest and her plastic G.I. Joe."

"So why don't ya take Layla's suggestion? Solve your problems the permanent way."

"Wouldn't eat that wanker if you paid me. Might snap his neck though…"

"And her?"

Softly, he starts to ask, "Honestly, do you think that _you_ coul –"

"Hang on."

He hears her just about the same time I do. With a quick nod to him, I disappear into the shadows, fading like the ghost I am. It's all up to Bleach-Blond now.

Spike turns to investigating the wreckage of his home with the toe of his boot, easily returning to his pitiful self. Have to say, it's not surprising he's not keen on facing Summers, not after what he's put her through. Even when she appears in one of her frilly baby-purple colored monstrosities.

It disgusts the rest of me, but there's a part of me that still thinks she looks hot. I mean, that thing leaves her back all exposed and begging to be licked all the way up her spine, and you'd barely have to pull the front down an inch to expose those small, smooth, round…

Damn. Must _concentrate._

Without even looking at her, he mumbles in a pathetic, self-deprecating tone, "So she's back. Thought you'd be off snogging the soldier boy. Or maybe your little lap dog."

"He's gone. She's – not something you and I are ever going to talk about."

He looks up at her quiet confession, though he stays side-on, keeping his shoulder defensively between himself and Blondie.

"So you've come for a bit of cold comfort?" He suggests hopefully. "The bed's a bit blown up but then that was never our… er…"

"I'm not here to – and I'm not here to bust your chops about your stupid scheme either. That's just you. I should have remembered."

"Oh this is worse then is it, this is you telling me –"

"It's over."

Rather than having the repelling affect Buffy probably intended, the vamp seems more amused than anything else. I guess denial is par for the course when it comes to conversations with Summers. Especially when she comes to reject a willing sex slave in a thin flimsy shirt that barely covers anything.

"I've memorised this tune, love." He stalks over to her, with a clear vision of where he thinks this is going. "Think I have the sheet music. Doesn't change what you want."

"I know that. I do want you. Being with you… makes things… simpler. For a little while."

"I don't call five hours straight a little while."

Okay, that was a bit too much information. He probably threw that in to taunt me. As if who has jumped her skinny-ass bones more often was important any more. We asked him to be her sire; doesn't get much more personal than that.

"I'm using you. I can't love you. I'm just... being weak, and selfish..."

"Really not complaining here."

Hope plastered all over his face, he steps up into her space. God, he couldn't be more pathetic if he tried.

"…and it's killing me.

Huh. Not exactly what either of us was expecting. His face flickers through confusion, hurt surprise, and awful realisation.

"I have to be strong about this. I'm sorry... William."

The whole time her face has been stone, cold and emotionless. She refuses to engage, to allow him anywhere near her emotions. Probably through fear he'll see right through her flimsy façade and rip it away from her. Fortunately, he's too wrapped up in his own pain to pay any attention to hers.

When she turns to walk away this, now, this should be the moment when he should pounce. But all he does is stand there, watching her leave with a hurt puppy-dog look on his face. Idiot! When she's gone I'm going to rip him a new one.

All that happens is that she climbs up and out of his underground home, while he and I remain, lurking in the dirt and the dark.

"You ain't nothin' but her bitch," I snarl.

Still gazing off at where Summers' tiny butt disappeared, he murmurs, "Look who's talking big now."

"That shoulda been simple, especially for you. Young girl, all vulnerable and alone, neck exposed and beggin' to be bit. Seems like a no-brainer."

"Nothing's ever simple, love. And you can tell your kennel-master I was never at her beck and call, and I'd appreciate it if she stopped sending you to yap at my feet."

With that, he disappears into the sewer tunnels, muttering "Bloody women."

_Goddammit!_

You know what, fuck this. Fuck Bleach-Blond and his useless pining. Fuck Layla and her stupid crazy-ass schemes. I'm out of here.

Unfortunately, I run straight into Layla as soon as I walk out the door.

"What now!"

She frowns at my outburst.

"Rough chat with the vamp?"

"Ya think!"

"Look, we can still fix this, alright? I'm sorry I yelled; it wasn't your fault. We'll just go back to the motel and sort things out. I'll make it better, promise."

Swallowing my anger, I let her lead me away through the graveyard. Maybe there's something more to this. Maybe she's going to sort this all out, actually salvage something useful from this debacle. Not like I've got an elsewhere to go.

And I can always leave in the morning.

Then pain explodes in my head, burning everywhere and then focusing into a distinct foot-shape around my ear. As the dancing lights fade, I find myself looking up at Summers' familiar butt, in between me and Layla.

"So you're the new addition to the fan club of be a pain in my ass. You guys are all the same, and you know what? I'm tired of it. All of it. This stops, now."

"Oh, I'm just getting started," Layla grins back. "There's a whole list of people in this town just begging for me to pay them a little visit. That skinny little brunette kid, for instance…"

Summers was shaking with fury on the inside, you could see it in her eyes, but outwardly she was calmly and stonily facing off with Layla.

"Come near my family and I _will_ end you."

Without moving any other part of her body, Layla tips her head on one side. She grins, but the gesture is empty, mocking.

"Let's get to it then."

Poor Barbie-Slayer isn't even given the chance to fight properly. Faster than a normal human could blink, Layla's in mid-pounce, claws first. Her lips are pulled back so the slobber flies off her fangs. Buffy dodges to the side and goes to kick her opponent's head, but Layla twists on her heels and slams into her.

They roll across the grass together, claws ripping at soft slayer flesh, hands tearing at thick wolf fur. Blood and hair flies in every direction until Layla gets lucky and manages to pin her onto her back. Literally pin: she drives three of her claws straight through her flesh to the ground, making Buffy grunt in pain.

With a haunting, hungry look in her eye, Layla leans down to close her jaws around Summers' exposed neck.

"You said you wouldn't kill her!" I shout, moving to get up. Surely she wouldn't do this. Not after I made her promise.

Without bothering to shift back into human form to explain, Layla just sneers down at me and then turns back to Buffy's vulnerable throat.

I snap.

Shifting on the fly I slam into her side, sending us both tumbling into a large tomb.

I remember how she fought, how she moved. How she was all about speed, dashing in quickly, doing as much damage as she can before her opponent can fight back. If I let her get away from me, she wins. But she accidently gave me an idea. Before she can leap away, I slam one paw down on her back leg and seize the edge of her scruff between my teeth.

With a quick tug she manages to free her leg, but I cling onto her flesh with grim determination. Desperate, she tries to pull away, but I follow as she drags me around, slamming me into trees and gravestones. But none of her attempts to shake me work. Though I don't think there's any inch of me that remains un-bruised, I slowly work my vice-like hold on her neck round to her throat.

As I close in on her windpipe, she weakens and gasps for breath, eventually collapsing beneath me. She scrabbles ineffectively at me while I finish choking the life out her.

It takes what seem like forever for the life to drain from her, for her to stop struggling. I have to shake her at the end, just to convince myself she's definitely dead. That it's definitely over.

Buffy just stands there, watching me pant with exertion. Every inch of her that isn't ripped open with deep, gaping gashes is smeared with blood and dirt, and in her frozen hands she clutches tufts of shredded fur.

But she doesn't move to take me down. Minutes ago she was fighting for her life, and now she stands there open, panting heavily, but done. It's the stance of a soldier at the end of a battle, when the bodies of your enemies lie broken at your feet. When all that's left around you are the people that fought at your side, your brothers in arms, your friends. It's the calm of safety descending around you.

And I can't stand the fact that when she looks up at me she looks relieved, glad. Done.

I can't stand it I won't stand it.

Why does she keep looking at me like that?

Can't stand it won't stand it.

Why can't I breathe?

Can't stand it.

Where did all the noise go?

Won't stand it.

Why can't I _think_?

God she's crowding in on me. Why the fuck won't she leave me alone. I just want to scream at her.

I can't. I just can't.

How could I yell at her just standing there waiting for me.

I won't. I refuse.

_**Why isn't she killing me?**_

Oh crap you can't tell me she's going to…

No. Anything but that.

Don't you dare forgive me.

I couldn't bear that.

Wait – when did I become human again?

"You – you _saved_ me," she breathes incredulously. "Faith. Faith? Can you hear me?"

At first, I refuse to hear her. I just dig my fingers into the dirt and keep muttering over and over; "Does not happen. Does not happen."

Wincing, she limps over and crouches in front of me, searching for any flicker of a response in my distant eyes.

"Hey, c'mon. It's over now, she's gone; you don't have to do what she says anymore. You did good."

Caught up in the moment, in the pounding blood and streaming sweat, she leans down to kiss me. I yank my head away, disgusted. There's no way she could really want me, not after all I'd done to her.

"No… You can't… I can't… It's all gone wrong."

"Guess what, genius? I don't care. Let's just go home, clean up and get some sleep. We can have the guilt-ridden dramatic conversations in the morning. Anyway, Willow always gets abducted. It's like her thing. Though that's quite worrying, 'cause I never thought of Willow being into all that… um, sorry. Major side-track."

"Please? It's just –"

She sighs, deep and heavy. "Too much. I – I know. Not like I'm the poster child for stable and sane right now."

"Gotta… I gotta…"

_Why is my brain refusing to make words!_

With a faint sad smile playing at the edge of her lips, she leans forward to try and kiss me again. Wrapping one hand lightly around the back of my neck she coaxes me in without trapping me, and without stopping to think I just allow myself to fade into her. I lose myself in the soft gentle brush of her lips, the comforting sweep of the pads of her fingers, her overwhelming closeness. Just for a second, she helps me shut off my brain and just let it be.

She pulls back to examine my face, the little cuts and bruises and the pleading, desperate fear in my expression. Somehow, she _understands._

"So go. But; Faith?" She pulls my head up and round to make sure I'm looking straight into her eyes. "Make sure you come back again."

So my legs carry me away, far far away where she can't follow me. Where she can't take me in her arms and promise me everything will be okay. Because it can't be okay. Not now. Not like this.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: So through a series of unfortunate events that I will tell you all about some other time, but mostly involving spending my summer being a cross-country vagabond, I've been unable to update. I'm really sorry to leave you guys hanging, and will try to barrage you with story by way of apology. I also didn't mean to end at this point, but the way the story has played out in my brain means it has to continue in a sequel. Don't worry; I've already started work on it. Recommended background music: **_**'Out of This World'**_** by Bush.**

* * *

It's almost three weeks before I do eventually come back.

Time kind of lost any sense of meaning up in the Yukon. There was just trees and wind and half-melted snow, stretching out all around me wherever I wandered. Mostly, everything else with a heartbeat was smart enough to stay away. It was only when I stumbled upon a snow-shoe rabbit or a den of young that I realised how ravenously hungry I was. The rest of the time I just ran and slept, ran and slept, stopping only when my legs collapsed beneath me, carrying on as soon as they could hold my weight again. Numbness was surprisingly easy to find. I never noticed when four legs became two, nor really cared how many predators would feast upon the human-looking thing they found on the floor. It didn't really matter anymore.

Until one day I lay down on an overhanging cliff and saw in the distance something that looked like a river, without smelling like a river. I was almost on top of it before I remembered the word 'road'. I followed it automatically. Eventually I remembered the word 'car'. Then it all came back to me like a punch to the gut.

House. Town. Food. People. Cigarettes and booze. Humanity crowded in on my brain until two more words came back to me: Buffy; and Layla.

Since I'd run into the woods I hadn't once looked at my reflection, but my once tight clothes hung off me and my hair straggled limp and greasy over my shoulders. In almost every way I've become even less human. Buffy probably wouldn't recognise me if she saw me. But she'd only said I had to come back: didn't say I had to let her know about it. She didn't have to see me.

Physically, she looked well. Her eyes still had that vaguely haunted, hunted look about them – like she wanted to sleep but was afraid something would come and eat her if she did – but it had lessened. While I was gone she had started to piece herself together. Knowing that just made it even more possible to approach her.

But it didn't explain why she was poking a stick into the bushes in her garden.

I watched her do this for a good twenty minutes before a man I didn't recognise walked in. They seemed friendly, comfortable. Everything Buffy and I never had with each other. A sudden impulse rushed over me, to sprint over and rip his throat out, but I managed to quell it, surrendering instead to the cramps in my shoulders, hips and legs as I crouched tensely.

I never was very good with jealousy.

In fact, I'm so caught up in my emotions and self-deprecation that by the time the boy fires off his first shot I'm barely half-way through the hedge. The acrid yet somehow sweet smell of blood hits my nose so fast that I barely register the look of panic on the boy's face. It's the man, crying out Buffy's name, which makes me pause with my butt still stuck in the undergrowth. She's hit, hit bad, and the conflicting urges that threaten to overwhelm me freeze me to the spot. Thinking back, I realise if I was a better person I would have done what the man did, run over to Buffy and comforted her, called the ambulance in a terrified frenzy, struggled to stem the flow of blood. Somehow, I could have been useful.

Instead, I slunk back into the hedge like a pup that's just had its first thrashing, body folding up in submission, powerless to help. The boy ran off. I could easily have chased him down, ripped his limbs from his fragile body, but I was transfixed by the scene playing out in front of me.

Something wouldn't let me leave until Buffy was okay.

Well, at least that's what was keeping me there until a silent explosion of magic knocked me off my feet. Humans have always seemed particularly badly attuned to magic. There can be intense mojo going down in the room right next door to them, and they won't have a clue it's happening. In fact, they have a weird ability to explain away anything even remotely mystical. Wolves are different. When you're stronger than a vampire, almost immortal and faster than a speeding train, any force that can lay you flat with a blink of an eye is something to be reckoned with. You learn to sense magic fast, or you quickly run out of opportunities to learn, in a permanent way. I'd never felt anything half as hard as the waves hitting me now, and they were coming from inside Buffy's house.

Just as I'm scrabbling to my feet the wail of sirens and flash of lights tells me the ambulance is here. Paramedics rush into Buffy's back yard, looking like nothing more than a new variety of cop, and I growl under my breath at them. They are quick, efficient; business-like without being cold, and somehow seem to get Buffy sorted and ready to be manhandled into the waiting ambulance whilst simultaneously calming down the man. They all rush towards the front of the house and I take advantage of the confusion to inch forward barely far enough so I can carry on watching them. While Buffy's loaded onto the ambulance, a girl I vaguely recognise storms out of the house, reeking of magic. The look in her eyes sears away any doubts I had that this skinny girl was the source of the deafening disturbance I felt barely five minutes ago.

Within a minute, the entire group is swept away in the bizarre turbulence of movement humans seem to go through during emergencies, and I'm left cowering behind the corner of Buffy's house, alone.

Some strange urge causes me to wander listlessly into Buffy's open house. If I had come here under different circumstances I would have explored the whole place intensely. Right now I'm not in a curious mood.

Slowly, I begin to sniff the air inside the house without moving from the doorway. It's amazing how quickly the smell of blood from outside has seeped in. I'd almost believe there was someone wounded in here too. Aimlessly, I wander up the stairs, thinking of nothing until I realise the smell has grown surprisingly stronger.

Well, not surprisingly considering the body in the main bedroom.

It's Red's girl, the chick that saved her from Layla and me. That comforted Buffy when she realized she was nothing but a loser magnet. Another of Buffy's friends hurt. Killed in the line of duty. That's what you get from life: loss.

But maybe not for Buffy, not today. Here, finally, is something I can help with.

I lift the body easily and shift her over one shoulder, running hell for leather until I'm clear of the city limits. There's no time to catch my breath. With frantic speed born of desperation, I find the small, cylindrical wound in her chest and rip the fabric of her shirt to expose the hole to the air. Ripping madly with my nails, cursing the sunlight, I get my blood flowing freely enough to drip down over the bullet hole.

Even before I've started, I know it's not going to be enough. Even spilling all my blood can't bring the dead back. There's only one thing I can do to help now.

So I dip my head and sink my teeth into her shoulder.

It's a small, understated moment. The time comes with the waiting, watching for the sun to go down, for the darkness to come. Shortly after sunset she sits up, blinking and rubbing her eyes in disorientation. Once she's sorted herself out enough to notice me, all she has are two strange questions.

"Am I… dead? Is this the afterlife?"

"I been told it's more a sorta après-vie, whateva that means" I tell her as I pull her to her feet. "We better get goin'. Got hell of a long journey ahead of us."

I still don't know why I did it. Brought her back. Maybe I'm just looking for… what's that word?

Oh yeah.

Absolution.

* * *

Jesus never cried for me;

Never bent and cleansed my feet.

I'm waiting for the light,

But it's not the light I seek.

It's an unnatural act of faith that fulfils

But a senseless act of beauty that kills.

Anything goes when you start from the baseline,

They'll carry on if you tell them that you're fine

Then they will crash your plane and break your heart,

So they can watch you as you fall apart.

But just because you want it, doesn't make it right;

Just because it's there, doesn't put it in your sight.

A change in my smile, and who am I?

Turn my other cheek 'cause this side bites.


End file.
